The Missing Mollies, or Mr Monk and Mr Holmes
by SJO
Summary: Cryptic clues from a kidnapping lead Adrian Monk to England to seek advice from the Reichenbach Hero. Sherlock is also working on a kidnapping case with similar clues. Believing the cases to be connected, these two consulting detectives agree to work together. Please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

The Missing Mollies, or Mr. Monk and Mr. Holmes

A _Monk/Sherlock _Crossover Fic by SJO

Note: _Monk _is owned by USA Network, and _Sherlock_ is owned by BBC and PBS, not me. I may be incorrect in British phraseology, geography, and spellings; please be patient with me. There will be spoilers from both series and a couple theories that may or may not be spoilers. This takes place after the _Monk _series finished and after "Reichenbach Fall," whenever Sherlock decides to reveal himself again.

Chapter 1

It seriously felt like Trudy all over again.

She was supposed to call him when she came in on Friday, but she didn't. That's when he started to worry. When he did get the call, it was from the hotel—no one had seen her since the last filmed signed off. She did not check out of her hotel, and yet she was not in her hotel room. They asked him to come in. He was worried he was too close to it and would not see crucial evidence. But he decided he had to try. If he lost her . . .

He was coming up cold. No signs of a struggle. She actually took a shower before she left the room willingly. Did she know the guy? Her boyfriend and her parents were accounted for, and _he _certainly didn't do it. Wait a minute—

"That drawer's been openned recently. It's still cracked."

"Maybe she was reading the Gideon Bible," one of the security guards suggested.

"No, she has her own."

"Getting a number out of the phone book, maybe ordering a pizza?"

"She'd find that information on her laptop; she uses it for everything. I'm just gonna look."

He carefully slid open the drawer with his pen. The Bible was there, but inside the cover was an envelope. No address on the front. He took it out and slit it open. Inside was a strange-looking piece of currency. It was obvious what it was, but he'd never seen it before. "It's British, £5. I don't think she knows anyone from England. She talks about going sometimes, but how-? Hang on, there's something else." He unfolded a sheet of paper that included a few measures of music. He could hear how it sounded inside his head, but he didn't recognize the tune. Who left this? The guy? What did it mean? He must be trying to communicate with someone.

Then he noticed something else, a clue that probably wasn't as intentional. The notepad was by the phone, but it was at an angle, not neatly laid out. The pen was still uncapped. "Someone used this." The pad was blank, but the first page had been ripped out. He took his pen and gently rubbed on top of the first page, and he recognized her handwriting. The note read, "Rise and Fall of the Reichenbach Hero." What does that mean? It sounded like a title the more he thought of it, but when he checked the festival's itenerary, none of the films had that title. He started to piece together what happened from that clue, but it didn't tell him where she was or if she was still alive.

When he got home, he started playing the music on his clarinet over and over. The more he played it, the more it sounded familiar. He still wasn't sure where it was from or what it meant.

Then Natalie came in. "Hey, are you doing OK?" she asked as she joined him. He nodded and continued to play. "Hey, that sounds nice on the clarinet. How do you know 'Baker Street,' Mr. Monk?"

He put down his instrument. "What did you say?"

"'Baker Street.' It's a soft-rock tune from the seventies, I think. That's the solo that serves as the chorus. It's played on a saxophone, but it doesn't sound bad on a clarinet. So, have you got any leads on Molly's disappearance?"

"I do now," he answered. He took a deep breath and said, "We have to go to London."

They packed and got on an airplane citing a "police emergency." Stottlemeyer suggested that they check in with a colleague of his that he met at a police conference, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Monk was plainly nervous but determined, since he knew who was missing.

Just as soon as they got off the plane, Monk and Natalie went to Scotland Yard and talked to Stottlemeyer's contact. They shared the details, but he shook his head. "Sorry, I haven't heard anything of the sort."

"Nothing on Baker Street?" Monk asked. "She has to be there."

He paused but said, "No criminal activity, as far as I know."

Monk leaned in. "Who's the Reichenbach Hero?"

Lestrade looked a little surprised. "What?"

"'Rise and Fall of the Reichenbach Hero.' Does that mean anything to you?"

Lestade leaned back in his chair and whispered, "Holmes."

"Excuse me?"

"Listen, Stottlemeyer's told me about you. You're a consulting detective, right? Not officially on the force, but you help the police out of tight spots, right?"

"That's right."

"We got one of those over here. He lives on Baker Street. Name's Sherlock Holmes."

Monk laughed. "You can't be serious!"

"I am bloody serious! That's his name! No more unusual than Adrian, isn't it? Not too long ago, he was named the Reichenbach Hero by the presses for recovering that long-lost Turner painting. He doesn't have the same kind of, er . . . hang-ups that you do, but he's got his own stuff. He's not on the force, though, never has been. He just showed up a few years ago and said he could help, and he did. I've been asking him to help on and off since then."

"Well, that's great!" Natalie said. "Let's call him!"

"Er, it's not quite that simple," Lestrade answered. "He hasn't been in contact with us for a couple days, says he's working on a personal matter."

"Is he hiring a new assistant?"

"No, it's more complicated than that."

Monk asked Natalie, "What should we do?"

"I think we should go find him. Mr. Monk, he basically said the same thing, almost word for word, of what Stottlemeyer told me the day I first met you. You still saw me, didn't you?"

"You know what? I agree with her," Lestrade said. "Holmes kinda took a credibility hit, not getting as many clients. His assistant's been complaining. In fact, his assistant and I are probably the only people in the world who still believe in him. A case where Sherlock Holmes colaborates with the famous Adrian Monk just might be what the doctor ordered."

Monk laughed a little again. "Sorry, it just sounds a little too incredible."

"I'll arrange an escort."

"You should know, Mr. Monk needs to sit in the front," Natalie said.

"Oh. Then it might be better if you took a cab, but I'll pay the fee, and I'll call and let him know you're coming."

"Great," Monk answered. "Thank you, Cap—Inspector."

As he was leaving, Monk passed by a policewoman who said behind his back, "Just what we need, _two _freaks."

A man who was with her laughed and said, "From what I hear, that one's freakier than the other one."

Those comments hurt. Monk stopped and felt his shoulders twitch, but Natalie put her hand on his arm and said, "That's OK, let's just go."

It took some negotiating with the cab driver, but he allowed Monk to sit in the front when he heard this was official police business. Monk took a few deep breaths as he sat up front. Natalie touched his shoulder. "You doing OK?"

"It's just a little strange," he said. "This is where the driver usually sits, and I'm sitting here, and I'm not driving."

"That's because Americans are backward!" the taxi driver snapped.

"No, I mean, are you panicking? We're in a new place. I know you aren't comfortable in new places."

"Well I . . ." They turned onto Baker Street. Monk took a look around. "I think I'm OK."

"Good. I'm proud of you."

The car came to a stop. "221B Baker Street, home of Sherlock Holmes," the driver said.

"221B?" Monk asked as they got off. "Did he even consider an even number like 220? Or 200? Or 100? A?" Natalie shushed him and rang the bell. An older woman opened the door and led up to the apartment.

He heard someone talking before he went in, a younger voice saying, "Folk song, commonly taught to children, origin unknown but most people believe it's German, you were right—" Since he was talking, they didn't hear the older lady's knock, so Monk just went in.

"Excuse me," he said nervously. He saw two young men there. One was sitting at a computer; he had sandy hair and wore a striped sweater. The other was a taller man with dark, curly hair, a more angular face, and dressed in a black suit, and he was looking into a microscope. When Monk came in, they both looked up in annoyance. "Uh, hi. Cheerio . . . chaps." He gave a small nervous wave. They didn't react. "That's British slang. It means young men."

"Yes, we're aware," the man at the microscope said darkly.

"Am I interrupting something?"

"Bit, yeah," the man at the computer said apologetically.

"Sorry. I just, I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes. Do you know where I might find him?"

"He's not taking cases today," the man at the microscope said.

Natalie stepped in. "Well, we just need to talk to him for a minute. Please, we came all the way from San Francisco. It's important!"

"Natalie," Monk said quietly, "that's the guy. The one Lestrade told us about." He pointed to the curly-haired one.

"How do you know?"

"Who else but a detective would look at us so closely?"

"Isn't this the bloke Lestrade phoned us about?" the man at the computer asked.

"I know it is," the man at the microscope muttered. He stood and approached them. "Your fame precedes you, Adrian Monk. Pleasure." He held out his hand to shake.

"As does yours, Mr. Holmes," Monk answered as he nervously took his hand. "Though I thought you'd be older."

"I thought _you'd _be younger, and it's Sherlock, please." Natalie immediately handed him a wipe. "Did I offend you, Mr. Monk?"

"Oh no!" Monk answered as he wiped his hand (he always hated this question). "I'm, it's-"

"He's just like that," Natalie added.

"This is Natalie Teeger, my assistant."

The man at the computer stood and smiled. "Charmed!" He reached out to shake Natalie's hand.

"And this is my assistant and friend, Dr. John Watson," Sherlock introduced.

"Oh, a doctor!" Monk spoke. "What kind, medical? Psychological? Professor?"

"No, I was an army doctor," John replied.

"How convenient!" He whispered rather loudly, "Don't let him quit! It's never the same."

"Hey, I'm right here!" Natalie said, offended. "Just tell them about the case."

"Yes." Monk took a breath and started. "Friday evening a journalist was abducted from the Sacremento Film Festival. All evidence indicates that the victim was taken to—"

But before he could breathe another word, Sherlock started walking away back to his lab. "I do appreciate the distance you've come seeking my aid, but I must decline. I'm working on a case of my own at the moment. I owe my client all my concentration and energy; I am sure you understand. My advice is that you begin working on your case with Lestrade, and I may join you by the end."

Monk stepped back for a moment and almost left, but then he turned. "OK, here's the thing—I can't do that. Lestrade led me here. The case led me here. England, London, Baker Street, Reichenbach Hero! You either help me, or you know something. You might even be the guy! Should I take you down for questioning?"

"I think if Sherlock kidnapped someone I'd know about it," John spoke up.

"How about this? Why don't I help you with your case? I'm pretty good with—"

"No, it has to be—" Sherlock looked up at him again. "Lestrade told you all of that?"

"No, actually I heard some of it from your own Queen," Monk answered. Sherlock looked at him questioningly, and Monk put on the table all the evidence baggies. "This was found in the journalist's hotel room."

Sherlock looked it over, especially the £5 note. He didn't notice the Reichenbach Hero note because it was in the back of the bag. Suddenly, he looked up again. "What's her name?"

"_Her _name? I never said it was a woman, just a journalist."

"Ah, withholding evidence, trying to trick me into a confession. Would be clever, but you were on the force, and that's what they taught you to do, wasn't it? I'm working on a hypothesis, so learn to trust me. What's her name?"

"Molly Evans." Shelock slowly nodded. "She's twenty-nine, blonde—"

"No, you don't need to describe her just yet." He went back to the microscope. "It's so happens that my case is also for a missing person. You say you heard from the Queen; I received information from one of your Presidents. As I understand, he's usually a reliable sorce, you might say honest." He slipped out from under the microscope a five dollar bill.

"Yeah, Honest Abe."

"That's what I thought, but there is something dishonest about this bill. I also found it at the scene of the crime."

"And a piece of music. I heard the doctor talk about it when I was coming in."'

"I was trying to piece it together. Like you, I thought it was telling me where the victim is; now, it's starting to make sense." He leaned in a little closer. "You know what this means, don't you, Mr. Monk?"

He nodded. "The cases are connected. Same guy."

"Same guy, yes." He added in a whisper, "And he knows us."

"What?"

"He knows both of us. He's been watching us. He knows we both read music, and he knows what gets our attention—the bizarre, the baffling."

"You don't seriously mean these clues were meant for us!"

"Of course, I do! Who else could it be?"

"The criminals! They're communicating with each other!"

"If they want to communicate, they can text, chat, and email; that's more private. Think about our two possibilities. Which do you actually think is more likely?" Monk was at a loss for words. He wasn't really sure he caught it all; this kid had a way of speaking really fast. Sherlock looked back down at the evidence and noticed the handwritten note. "What is this?"

"It's a note from the victim, from Miss Evans. I think she made it just before she left."

"Oh, they make a mistake. They always do, and you caught it. Good." He put on a scarf and a long coat and said quietly, "Listen, this could be dangerous. This could lead to all sorts of trouble. But I'm game for it if you are."

"Of course, yes, I am."

"Excellent! I believe it would be best if we walked, and we do have a long way to go. I hear your memory is spot on, so I want you to go through every detail of your crime scene, and I will show you mine. Perhaps you can discover another clue that we weren't meant to find."

"Wait a minute," Natalie spoke up. "How _did_ you know it was a woman?"

Sherlock looked back with a grin. "Tell her the song we got, John.

John gave somewhat of an embarrassed grin. "'John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.'"

"What, 'his name is my name, too'?" Natalie said.

Sherlock looked at Monk before opening the door. "I'm also looking for a woman named Molly—Molly Hooper."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

On the walk, Monk couldn't resist tapping the street lamps. Sherlock walked beside him in silence for a while; John and Natalie were right behind them comparing notes. Sherlock kept trying to analyze Monk's practice, but all he could see were question marks. So finally he asked, "What _are _you doing?"

"What does it look like? I'm tapping the poles."

"Why?"

"I'm . . . me."

"Weren't we going to discuss the hotel room?"

"Oh, right." In Sherlock's mind, Monk led him into an empty, white space. "It's a rather standard hotel room. I suggested she go to a cleaner one with more stars, but she said she couldn't afford it. The first thing I noticed was that the bed was made." A bed appeared right in front of them. "But it was still somewhat messy on this end, indicating that she sat on it."

"Right, when I said every detail—"

"You want me to be more specific. I can do that." He pointed next to him. "Bed, king size, white comforter, four large white pillows." It appeared just as he said right next to him. "On either side, two bedside tables, wood, oak, each with lamps that turn on with the main light switch, each with drawers—that one slightly open. Phone book there. Clock radio there. Remote control there, askew. Window, window, blue curtains—closed. Chest of drawers. TV, turned off. Coffee maker. Four styrofoam cups. Coffee, creamer, sugar, pink sweetener, blue sweetener, yellow sweetener (about six each), stirrers, napkins. Desk, chair, phone, notepad askew first page torn off, pen askew uncapped. Trash can, empty. Suitcase, open, contains hosiery and some unmentionables. Closet, open, rather large, almost a room to itself. Iron, ironing board, hangers, red dress, blue dress, black dress, undergarments—don't look at that. Black shoes, red sandals. Carpet floor, high heel impressions still seen between the bed and the front door. Bathroom, white tile, floor's still wet, wadded towel on the floor. Tub, shower, curtain, sink, commode, small window. Hairdrier. Toilettry bag. Makeup all still out: powder foundation, blush, eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick still uncapped. Three lights: one in the closet, one in the bathroom, and one above the bed, all with their own light switches. The walls were painted green. There was one picture of potted flowers right here. It was 71 degrees, the air conditioner was on, and there was still a trace of her vanilla body spray in the air. And I think that's—oh! Cricket!"

The more Monk described, the more appeared in Sherlock's mind, and he walked through it with him. He nearly slipped on the wet floor in the bathroom, so it must have been significant. The cricket was going too far; it wasn't evidence. So Sherlock stepped on it. "Right, I think that's enough to get on with."

"Good. So I didn't leave anything out?"

"Anything out—yes! Is there anything that should be there that isn't?"

"Her laptop. She took it with her. And her notes. Obviously, a dress and some shoes. And her purse, and room key."

"Alright, splendid. So, the floor was wet in the bathroom, but the bed was made. Housekeeping came earlier in the day, but they didn't clean up since. Obviously, she took a shower. But she was packing. She had a long drive back home; she would only have to shower again when she returned. Why shower before she left. It doesn't—"

"—doesn't make sense, I agree."

"She didn't put her makeup away. Perfume still evident. She must have been freshening up for someone she just met. She hadn't planned on being abducted, but she prepared herself to go."

"Yes. OK, here's what happened. Molly Evans came in at the end of the festival." Sherlock saw her walk into the room and do as Monk described. "She started packing, getting ready to go home. Then, the phone rang. She answered. It was an amateur director asking her for input on a film he was putting together called 'Rise and Fall of the Reichenbach Hero.' The idea sounded appealing to her, so she wrote it down." (Sherlock could even hear her say, "How do you spell that?" and just barely heard the speaker reply, "R-E-I . . .") "He probably told her that he had to leave for England that night, so she agreed to meet with him but told him she was just getting ready to go home. He allowed her some time to prepare, probably an hour. So she took a shower, dried her hair, put on a clean dress, and put on makeup. Then, there was a knock on the door. She opened it and greeted him." (Sherlock could see his face clearly, the man he suspected.) "He asked before they left if he could stop in the room, probably to use the restroom." (Sherlock could hear him say, "Just a teensy moment? Won't keep you, I promise.") He came in, closed the door, planted the note, and flushed the toilet to complete his ruse. And then . . . he took her away." At that moment, the vision ended, and they were both standing on Baker Street. "So, we know the how. We still don't know the who or the why."

"He got his shoes wet."

"Yes, I thought about that. The floor was still a little damp just in front of the door, but that was it. He probably dried them before he left. I didn't understand why she was interested in this film, but now I think it makes sense."

"Why?"

"It was a film, probably a documentary, about a private consultant detective from London, just like the one from San Francisco. Just as much mystery, intrigue, tragedy. So, rise and fall—"

"I _don't _want to talk about it."

"You don't need to. Lestrade told me you took a credibility hit."

"Oh, that."

"I've been there." Monk could hear his voice, and without realizing it he began saying it aloud. "Say that again Detective Monk, I'm sorry, _Former Detective _Monk. Former Detective—"

"Well, it's not quite like that."

Monk didn't hear him. "And why were you discharged again, Former Detective Monk? Oh, that's right, psychological discharge! You know what the real mystery is here, Former Detective Monk? Why is it a man who was deemed too crazy to be a policeman is still helping the police solve crimes?"

"That doesn't really apply. I'm not on the force. Never have been, never will be."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a consultant detective. That's the position I made for myself. No, if you must know, a compelling argument was made that I am a fraud."

"Oh. That hasn't really happened. Though there was the time I was nearly convicted of murder. 'Bail is set at $900,000.' 'With the court's permission, could you make it an even million?'"

"Because of the person you are?"

"Exactly. My point is, people say what they're gonna say. They think what they're gonna think. My therapists says, though, they always have a tell for their curveballs."

"I don't care what people think."

"Well, you're a stronger man than I."

"I'm not surprised by that."

"It's like someone once told me, people don't change. They say they're gonna change. They vow they're gonna change. But at the end of the day, you are who you are. That's all you can be. They just don't understand how it is. It's a gift, and a curse."

"I suppose that's one philosophy."

"Really. What's yours?"

"Everyone else is stupid."

Monk paused and nodded. "Yeah, that's another. Even me?"

Sherlock stopped and once again examined him very, very closely. Then he smirked. "We'll see." And he walked ahead.

Monk started to follow but then realized, "Oh, I tapped that one twice. I gotta go back."

"Of course you do," Sherlock mumbled.

They finally stopped at a door a few blocks down. "This is her flat," Sherlock said.

"Molly Hooper's?" Monk asked.

"I came down here yesterday when I heard she never checked in for work at Bart's."

"Bart's?" Natalie asked. "What's that, a restaurant, a club?"

"Hospital, short for St. Bartholomew's. She's a technician in the morgue, helps me out if I need to run experiments."

"Is she missed by anyone, family?" Monk asked.

"They don't live in London, and she doesn't keep in close contact."

"Any romantic relationships?"

"No. She's quite single."

"Have you called the police?"

"No, I need to solve this one." He looked at Monk very closely before opening the door. "I want to make that very clear. You're helping me, but _I'm _solving this case."

"Right, got it, I'll leave the 'here's what happened' to you."

Sherlock nodded. "Good." He opened the door. "Off you go."

"You want me to-?"

"Yes. Let's see what you got."

"But the case will still be yours."

"Well, I already looked it over, didn't I?"

"I don't know, did you?"

"Just go!"

Monk walked into the apartment with his hands spread in front of him. He walked slowly and examined every piece of furniture closely. Sherlock leaned against the wall and watched him. After about five minutes, he got impatient. His fingers started twitching, and finally he blurted out, "Oh come on, are you solving a kidnapping, or doing tai chi?"

"I'm . . . not doing tai chi."

"I was being rhetorical, Mr. Monk. I would've finished by now!" Monk just shushed him.

"Be patient, Sherlock," John said. "He's got his own method, his own rhythm, and it works for him."

"Yeah," Natalie added. "You know what they say, 'Slow and steady wins the race.' Uh, not that you're competing. You're not, are you?"

"Sherlock, come in here!" Monk called from the bathroom.

Sherlock ran in. "Did you find something, finally?"

"I think so. Pick up that towel, by the tub, on the floor."

Sherlock did and rubbed his fingers together. "It's still wet."

"So she was also taking a shower before she was taken."

"Right. Of course, that's not so unusual."

"Yes. Now, could you please hang it on the peg, there?"

"Why?"

"Because it's supposed to hang . . . on a peg . . . like all the other towels. Look, when Molly Hooper comes back home, wouldn't she like all her towels hung, looking neat and dry and mold-free?"

"Yes, but this is evidence, so I can't do that." He dropped the towel on the floor. "Sorry." Monk groaned and turned away. "What else?"

"All her makeup's laid out. She also brushed her teeth; see, the toothpaste residue in the sink and on the counter, still somewhat fresh. And," he sniffed the air, "she painted her nails. Do you smell that? She did her fingernails and toenails, and it wasn't quite dry when he came for her."

"How do you know that?"

"Splashes of red polish in the carpet various places, especially here." He went into her bedroom closet where there were big splotches. "I think when he knocked, she went in here and grabbed some sandals. But there's one thing that confuses me." He took him back to the front door. "These twisted blinds, the knocked-over umbrella stand, this ruffled doormat, they all indicate a struggle."

"So? She didn't want to be kidnapped. Wouldn't anyone resist?" Watson suggested.

"My Molly didn't struggle. Every indication is that she left with him willingly. Beside, she got all dressed-up and made-up; who would expect a kidnapper?" He paced a bit. "I have an idea, but I have to see it. Natalie!"

"What do you need, boss?" she asked.

"I need you to be Molly Hooper."

"Oooh, role play!" Sherlock said gleefully grinning with boyish delight and rubbing his hands together. "Now we're talking! Wouldn't have pegged you for a fan, though, Mr. Monk."

"Well, visualizing it is helpful."

"No, we talked about this. I'm not going to be the victim!" Natalie argued.

"But I'm the detective. I have to observe!"

"Well, what about Sherlock? He said he wanted to solve the case."

"No, he has to observe, too!" Monk turned back to him. "Do you want to get involved?"

"Actually, yes," Sherlock answered. "Right, you are the dungeon master—"

"The what?"

"The narrator. I'll be the villain. John! Make yourself useful. Be Molly."

John shook his head. "I do not like where this is going."

"It's alright," Monk said. "We just need you to put on some nail polish."

"I do _not _like where this is going!"

Natalie ended up helping him. She painted his fingernails and toenails in a clear top coat. He still was very embarrassed. Sherlock waited outside the door for Monk's cue. Once they were done, John blew on them and shook them out, but it was plainly not enough. "Alright, now, knock!" Sherlock knocked on the door. "Oh, he's here! Molly goes to get shoes, gets a pair of sandals." Watson just mimicked picking up some shoes. "Now, she runs to the door. She opens the door." Watson opened the door.

Sherlock leaned against the doorframe with a wicked smile. "'ello, doll," he said in his best Cockney accent.

"Molly cries out in terror!" Watson gave a very half-hearted scream that sounded more like a groan. "Alright, now, struggle!"

Then Sherlock tried to pull John outside, and he kept trying to stand his ground. He hit Sherlock a few times, and Sherlock said, "Not so hard, John! You're Molly, remember?" When he finally succeeded in getting John outside, they called it quits.

"Excellent, thank you."

"So, what did that prove?"

"That this damage is a result of a struggle and not just clumsiness due to the drying nail polish."

"That's it?"

"It's significant," Sherlock said. "And it was kinda fun. I should do this more often."

"No, you shouldn't.

"It does take us back to square one," Monk said. "Why did she struggle when my Molly didn't?"

"Perhaps my Molly knew him, but your Molly didn't," Sherlock suggested. "If it's who I think it is, she knew him, and she knew he's bad news."

"Er, one problem with that theory," John spoke up.

"I _know_, but you thought I was too, remember?"

Monk wasn't sure what that was about, but what he asked was, "Well, we get back to the first question, still. If she knew what kind of person he was, why did she get dressed up? Why did she open the door?"

"Because she didn't know it was him. Come on, I'll show you." He took them back into her bedroom. "When I was here, I noticed that her computer was still on." He opened her laptop, and it came out of sleep mode. "She didn't take my advice, John. She set up an online dating profile. Got matched to someone who called himself Captain Cool."

"What?" Natalie said.

"I know, insipid, isn't it?" He pulled up the profile. "Obviously a Photoshopped stock photo; no one could look _that _perfect. It's little mystery they got matched; they're pratically identicle. Same hobbies, same favorite telly, same personality types. He does his best to live up to his handle in his emails, very suave and debonaire, telling her exactly what she wanted to hear. I'm frankly amazed that he didn't ask her to wire money to him so that he could get a plane from Africa so he could meet her. Nevertheless, it was this man she was intending to meet."

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch all that," Monk said. "Maybe it's . . . your accent?"

"What are you talking about? I don't _have _an accent. You have an accent."

"Well, I caught one thing," Natalie said. "Captain Cool?"

"Don't tell me it's the newest superhero in the latest American blockbuster!"

"No, it's Mr. Monk."

Sherlock and John both reacted in shock. "_You're _Captain Cool?" John asked.

"Well, I'm not this guy, but that was my nickname at Berkley," he answered with a sheepish nod.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Why do you think?"

"_Why?"_

"_Why _do you think?"

Sherlock shook his head. "At any rate, this is further proof."

"That he knows us?"

"These clues, they're not unintentional. He's trying to get our attention. He wants the both of us to come out and play."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Shortly after, they took a cab back to Baker Street. Natalie had realized that she didn't work off her jetlag yet, and John offered to take her to the café next door for a coffee.

"So," John said after they got settled, "wow. And I thought Sherlock was odd."

"Oh, 'odd' doesn't begin to describe Mr. Monk. It's probably the mildest word anyone could ever use," Natalie answered. "You know, one time he called me five times in the middle of the night because he saw an ant in his kitchen?"

"That's pretty bad," John laughed. "I got a worse one. I came in one night hearing gunshots. I came down and saw Sherlock shooting a smiley face into the wall just because he was bored."

"I saw that! I wondered what the story was. Mr. Monk wouldn't do that. If he's bored, he vacuums his apartment twice, then he dusts, then he vacuums again, then he disinfects his kitchen and bathroom, then he vacuums again, then he organizes everything in his refridgerator, and then, you guessed it, he vacuums again."

John leaned in. "Can we trade? I don't think Sherlock's ever been introduced to a vacuum cleaner."

Natalie smiled. "I wouldn't mind that, actually."

* * *

Meanwhile, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, all his fingertips touching and his palms apart, and Monk was being Monk. He was arranging test tubes so that they were largest to smallest.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"You'll thank me later," Monk answered.

"Everything is in its proper place, Mr. Monk; please don't touch anything."

Monk sighed and stopped bothering them. "Can I just-?"

"No."

"But this is-"

"No."

"Wouldn't you-?"

"No!"

"Fine." He sighed and walked around the place, trying to keep his hands to himself. He saw Sherlock's deerstalker on the mantle, and he tapped the bow on the top. Then he tapped it again. And since he had nothing better to do, he tapped it again.

"Do you like that hat? You can have it."

"Oh, no, thank you."

"No, please, take it. Been trying to get rid of the beastly thing for ages."

Monk held it to take a closer look. "Where'd you get it?"

"Gift, from the police department for helping them catch a high-profile criminal."

"Oh, I could never take a gift."

"Most of the people who got it for me now believe I'm a fraud. So, as they say, no love lost."

"Did you ever wear it?"

"Against my will."

Monk dropped it. "Wipe! WIPE!"

Sherlock grinned. "A little bit of a hypochondriac, aren't you, Mr. Monk?"

"What gave me away? Natalie! Oh right, she's not here. Do you have any antibacterial soap?"

"Toilet's down the hall."

"No, I said _soap!_" Sherlock sighed deeply and rolled his eyes.

* * *

"But it was quite interesting watching him at work," John continued. "I liked that hand-thing, made it look like an art. Don't tell him I said, but he didn't really find much that Sherlock already noticed, but it was fascinating seeing a completely different method."

"What's Sherlock's method?" Natalie asks.

"He stares at things, sometimes looks up stuff on his mobile, and then he talks really, really fast."

"Must be difficult keeping up with him."

"Sometimes. I've got a knack for it, I think. And he always acts like everybody should've seen what he's seen. 'So far, so obvious,' he says."

Natalie laughed. "Mr. Monk says something a lot that sometimes." She did his best impression of him and said, "Unless I'm wrong, which, you know, I'm not."

John laughed hard. "We should never tell Sherlock that; he'll use it to death!"

* * *

As Monk got out of the restroom with clean hands, he heard violin music. He came back into the living room and saw Sherlock standing at the window playing "Ode to Joy" on his violin.

"I thought so!" Monk said. "I recognized the callous on your pinky."

Sherlock just grinned at him and continued playing.

"I can play that song, too. I play the clarinet."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I played with Willie Nelson."

"Did you?"

"I should've learned to play the violin. No one puts their, you know, mouth on it."

"Do you play clarinet when you're trying to think?"

"No, I clean and straighten, which you won't let me do. Can you play any Willie Nelson songs?"

Sherlock stopped playing and faced him. "I'm an amateur violinist, not a fiddler."

"You better take good care of your hands, then."

"Excuse me?"

"If anyone asks you if you're right-handed or left-handed, tell them you use them both. Tell them you're ambidextrous." He took Sherlock's free hand by the wrist. "Don't let anything happen to them. Love both your hands."

Sherlock gave him an odd look. "OK, I will."

Monk let go and saw more clearly how confused he was. "In one of my cases, a professional violinist got kidnapped and one of his fingers got chopped off. I just don't want that to happen to you because you're . . . good."

Sherlocked bowed to him. "Thank you. Now, will you please shut up?" He started playing again, and Monk nervously sat down.

* * *

"So, do you have a blog?" John asked.

"I used to, but I got out of the habit. It was too much of a headache talking about everything, like the time Mr. Monk begged me to write Alfred Hitchcock's people to re-shoot _The Thirty-Nine Step _with one extra step to make an even forty."

"Well, where do you get your clients?"

"We mostly work with the police. I tried to make Mr. Monk a private detective. We had one case—a fender-bender."

"I know how Sherlock would react in that case. 'Boring! Get out!'"

"That's about how he was, too. He didn't want it, but I encouraged him to stick with it. I told him what my grandfather used to say, 'Leap, and a net will appear!'"

"What happened?"

"He nearly drowned."

* * *

Both detectives were sitting down and thinking, both silent. Monk was the first to break it. "Why do you think we both got fives? Why couldn't it be a ten, or a twenty, or a hundred, a nice, even number like that?"

"He didn't want to do us any favors, funding our enterprizes to catch him. No, he gave us enough to send a message—one victim from England, one victim from America."

"Well, if that's the case, why couldn't it have been a one? It could've been the Queen and Washington rather than Lincoln."

"No, £5 is the lowest denomination of paper money in England. £1 is a coin. It's like a . . . what's the American equvalent, a Susan B. Anthony?"

"Sacajawea. They're not very popular, though." He went back into thought. "So, it has to be paper. Why does it have to be paper?"

Sherlock suddenly looked up as though something had just occurred to him. Then he rushed over to his microscope.

* * *

"So, how is he like, socially? Does he get along with people?" John asked.

"Well, he tries. Ever so often, he makes some _faux pas. _Like the first time he met me, he told he could tell I was dating. I asked him how he knew, and he pulled out of my jacket pocket some birth control pills. My twelve-year-old daughter was right there! I got after him, and he told her they were Tic Tacs." John laughed. "He's sometimes self-centered, doesn't have a lot of empathy, but I know his heart's in the right place. He's a good man trying to do good deeds in the world."

"That's good. Yeah."

"What about Sherlock?"

"Well, I like to think his heart's in the right place, too, but to be honest sometimes I wonder."

"I actually feel kinda sad for him. Even I noticed he had no pictures hanging in his place. No family? No friends? Must be a pretty lonely guy."

"Oh, he has family. I met his brother. There's some strain between them, but they both keep mum about what it is."

"Does his brother get out of the house?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Well, he's got an advantage over Mr. Monk's brother."

"And as for friends, he once told me he doesn't have friends. And later he said he just had one. I suppose he meant me."

"That's nice."

"I think he sells himself too short, though. I'm not sure if he really understands what friends are. Some people mean more to him than even he realizes. Molly's one of those people, I think. It's the reason he is so determined to solve this case."

"I think Mr. Monk's like that with our Molly."

* * *

"When are we going to start looking for them?" Monk asked.

Sherlock didn't even look up from his microscope. "Patience. We don't even know where they are yet."

"Look, here's the thing: the longer we wait, the more danger they're in. You know the statistics, what kidnappings are usually about, especially with women."

"You don't need to worry about that. They're just bait." He then looked up. "If you want to speed things along, I'll get my old microscope, and you can analyze the British note."

"Uh, no thank you."

"Oh, you want me to sterilize it first?"

"No. Here's the thing: I kinda have a thing about microscopes."

"When you say you have a thing . . ."

"I'm afraid of microscopes! They just, they reveal this whole other world that I just . . ." (he groaned).

"I see. It's part of your hypochondria. Very well, I'll carry on by myself." He looked back down into the microscope.

"But we have a lead! My clue, remember? Baker Street! Shouldn't we call Lestrade and start looking in the other . . . flats?"

"That wasn't a lead. That was only to lead you to me."

"Oh, right, because all these clues were meant for us. Come on! What do you think this is, a comic book? A video game? A _Scooby Doo _cartoon?"

Sherlock looked up again. "You still don't trust me. Because I'm young?"

"WELL, YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER! Criminals don't do this! They're more like people who think they are tidy, they work really hard to tie up all the loose ends and get everything neat and straight and even, but they never do! They always forget something! They always leave a mess!"

"Is that how criminals are in America? Sounds dull."

"Yes, it does! Dull is safe! Dull is good!"

"Oh dear, it seems the Party's got to him."

"What?"

"Where's your sense of adventure, Mr. Monk? Your sense of danger?"

"Look, you think the world is a thrilling, fun place, but really, it's not, and when it is, it's not good news. I mean, when they really plant clues on you, you're in trouble. Every time a criminal made clues for my benefit, it ends up badly. They're usually out to kill me or put me in jail."

"See? Now, you're starting to get it."

Monk groaned, threw his hands over his head, and wandered back to the other room. "Problem?" he heard a voice say. He looked up and saw Natalie and John had returned.

"When did you get back? And what took you so long?" Monk asked Natalie.

"About when you were screaming, and we were just chatting, you know, comparing notes," she answered.

Monk whispered, "Natalie, he's unsound. He's a paranoid maniac."

"Look, I know it seems farfetched, what he's telling you," John said, "but he actually has a method to his madness. There is a certain criminal who does 'play' with Sherlock, much like a cat plays with a mouse before dinner."

"And who is that criminal?"

"Well, it hardly matters now; he's dead. He died right in front of Sherlock, killed himself."

"His body was never found!" Sherlock said from the other room.

"Yeah, obviously, Sherlock doesn't believe he's gone, but he had an extensive network. There might be others continuing his work or something."

"Well, I just think we should do something to find them," Monk said. "We're running out of time. They could be hurt. We have a lead; we gotta do something with it."

"What, Baker Street?" Natalie said. "Do you know of anything, John?"

He shook his head. "If there is criminal activity on Baker Street, I know who could tell us?"

"Who's that?"

"Mycroft, Sherlock's brother."

"Does he get out of the house?" Monk asked. (Natalie gave John a "See?" look.)

"Yes, he gets out of the house. In fact, he has a place in the government. Like I told you, Natalie, they are at odd, but he does keep a close watch where his brother lives. He told me he worries about him."

"Well, how do we contact? Call him?" Natalie asked.

"Well, that's the thing. You don't contact him; he contacts you. I know one of his haunts, but I'm not sure if he's there this time of day. Oh, but I can text him!" He got out his phone.

"Alright. Tell you what, Mr. Monk, John and I will go talk to this Mycroft, and you just keep trying to figure out the clues we have with Sherlock."

"You're gonna leave me alone with him, again?" Monk said anxiously.

"Mr. Monk, he's your colleague! He actually knows what he's doing, and he's capable. He's like me time ten! You'll be fine."

"No one could be you times ten." He looked at John, "Except for maybe you, 'cause you're a doctor. Besides, this place, no offense, I mean it's nice over here, but it's so . . . over here. It's almost like another country, you know?"

"You don't say?" Watson said in a sarcastic tone.

"Here." Natalie got out her cell phone and wiped it down. "If there's ever an emergency, if you really need me, just call John's phone. I'll save the number." She put the number in and gave it to Monk. "Oh, and here are some wipes." She put just a few in his pocket. "Take care, Mr. Monk." Monk called out to her, but she went out the door.

* * *

"So, you'll just text this guy?" Natalie asked.

"Yes," John answered. "He'll probably send a car over to us." He started typing, but just a minute later, an unmarked, black car with heavilly tinted windows pulled up to them. "Well, that was fast! I didn't even send it yet."

"How'd he do that?"

"He's Mycroft." John opened the door for her, and they got in.

The car drove to a parking garage. A man in a suit who had red hair and was holding a folded umbrella, even though it wasn't raining, was waiting for them. Natalie was first when she saw him about how different from Sherlock he looked.

"John!" the man said with a not-so-genuine smiled. "Delighted to see you again." He offered his hand.

John didn't take it. "Alright, first off, this doesn't change anything. I still haven't forgiven you, but unlike you're brother, I'm mature enough to put aside that and ask for your help."

Mycroft withdrew his hand. "Very well. I will count that as a victory. And Miss Natalie Teeger, welcome to the United Kingdom. I hope you are enjoying your stay, despite the circumstances."

Natalie was somewhat surprised that he knew her and what was going on, but she remembered that John said he watched them closely. "Um, thank you. It's been a long since I've been to London, not since I was a little girl."

"Yes, your grandfather Neville Davenport contributed greatly to our city, didn't he?"

John cleared his throat. "Well, Mycroft, as you may know, another detective is working with your brother, and he's concerned—"

Mycroft held up his hand, stopping him. "Not to be rude, John, but I did not send for you to answer you inquiry. However, since it is a concern, there is no criminal activity on Baker Street. The assassins have moved on. You and your brother are safe from them, for now. No, I summoned you here to have a few with Miss Teeger."

"Me? Why do you want me?" she asked anxiously.

"Actually, I was hoping I could also speak to your employer, but I understand that he and my brother are currently at work." He pulled out a folder from under his arm. "We are concerned because a number of emails have crossed our survers from the San Francisco Penitentiary."

"You read emails?"

"When they come from dangerous prisoners, yes. It's a concern of national security. Unfortunately, we cannot tell at this time as to the recipient because the address is always a long string of numbers which is never the same, and we are uncertain regarding the content, which also seems to be encrypted. Yet we have been able to discern the senders from their prison numbers in the address. This one is from Patrick Kloster."

"Kloster. Um . . . OK, my memory is not as good as Mr. Monk's."

"What if you saw it?" He passed it to her. The email was a description of chess strategies.

"Oh yeah, the chess master! Creepy guy. His wife came to us saying that her husband was going to murder, and she wanted Monk to solve her murder. But he was always three steps ahead of us, knew what we were going to do before we did it. One time we did a stakeout of his house, and he came to us and offered us drinks. He always spoke in chess metaphors. Mr. Monk almost planted evidence to catch him, but eventually he figured it out."

"So you think this is a metaphor?" John asked.

"Maybe. I don't really know enough about chess to say."

"And this one is from Ivan Torini," Mycroft said handing her another.

"Torini? That name sounds familiar," John said. The email explained how to do certain illusion.

"Oh, the Great Torini! He's a magician; he killed Mr. Monk's neighbor."

"Oh yeah, I think I remember seeing his show when I was on the force."

"Look sir, what does this all mean?"

"I fear, Miss Teeger, that it means your employer is in danger. And since he is working with my brother, by extension he is in danger as well. You must ask Mr. Monk to use extreme caution. To give you an idea, here is one more sent from Dale Biederbeck."

Natalie gasped. "Dale the Whale?"

"It seems to be some sort of alphabet, but the entries appear rather random." He handed it to her.

She read aloud, "Aiplanes, bugs, clown, darkness, eleva—oh no."

"What is it?" John asked.

She looked further down. "Heights, germs, needles, small spaces—this isn't random at all. This is Mr. Monk's phobias A to Z! Of course, the whole list is much more extensive, but I'd say the top ten are probably all on here."

John looked over her shoulder. "He's afraid of milk?"

"Yeah, I don't get that one either. John, I think Sherlock's right. I think someone wants to play with Mr. Monk. Not just that, they wanna torture him. We gotta get back to them!"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Just after Natalie and John left, Monk sat back at the table across from Sherlock and examined the British banknote. He really didn't see anything unusual about it, but he wasn't familiar enough with British currency. He thought about turning his attention to the sheet music when Sherlock interrupted his thoughts.

"Aha! There it is, what Dishonest Abe has been hiding from us."

"What is it?" Monk said getting up and looking over his shoulder.

"I knew that there was something wrong with this note. The texture is completely wrong, and it even feels a few grams too heavy for legal tender. The contents include only about 80% cotton fibers. Under closer inspection, I have found traces of iron distributed—"

"It's counterfeit!"

"Yes, that's what I was saying."

"Did you see the serial numbers?" Monk grabbed the £5 and put it next to the $5.

Sherlock was a little stunned that he missed it. "Nearly identical."

"I'm used to sequential serial number in domestic currency, shows that they're fresh from the bank, but in domestic and foreign currency—well, technically, they're _both _foreign, found in other the other country—that can't be possible. Unless I'm wrong, which, you know, I'm not, this can't be real money at all."

Sherlock chuckled. "I'm gonna have to steal that."

"Sure, you can have it."

"And I think I know what those serial numbers are." He ran over to his laptop, opened up a website, and typed one of the numbers in. "Yes! GPS coordinates, two hotels in the city adjacent to each other. I'll bet the extra number and letter denotes the room, and the iron deposits allow the note to be read like a card key. We did it, old boy!"

"We solved the case?"

"No, no, it can't be that simple, but we're onto him now! What's the celebratory gesture you Americans do, a high-five?" He held up his hand, but Monk groaned and he withdrew. "Right, your hypochondria. Let's just go!"

Monk followed them out, and they caught a taxi. Shortly after, Mycroft's car dropped Natalie and John off at 221B Baker Street. Both were quite distressed to find Sherlock and Monk gone. John checked with Mrs. Hudson. "You just missed them. They left a few minutes ago. Sherlock looked so happy, so he must have just found out something."

"Did he tell you where he was going?" John asked.

"No, he just said he was leaving."

"Doesn't he leave a note when he goes?" Natalie asked.

"No, Sherlock's more of a wandering-off kind. He's not very conscientious, doesn't cross his mind that people might be worried about him. That's why I usually try to go where he goes."

"Well, he's more independent than Mr. Monk. You think he'd be in good hands?"

John opened his mouth to defend his friend, but the more he thought about it, the more he wasn't sure how to answer. "Hang on, I think I can work out where they are." He cleared the screensaver on Sherlock's computer and found the map. "Here we go." Natalie followed him and accidently left the emails Mycroft had given her by the computer.

"By the way, dear," Mrs. Hudson said touching Natalie's arm before she went out, "that friend of yours, is he single?"

* * *

"Right, you take one, I take one." Shelock held out both phony banknotes.

"OK, I'll take Lincoln. No, wait, the Queen. No, on second thought, let's go with Lincoln. No, the Queen, definitely the Queen."

"Alright, I'm making the choice for you." He handed him Lincoln. "We stick with our nations, which is more than likely the intention."

"Then why did-?"

"Now, let me see your mobile."

"My what?"

Sherlock sighed and said stiffly, "Cell phone."

"Oh, I don't have one."

"You don't? You need one! It makes this job so much simpler."

"Not for me. I'm a traditionalist. Technology just slows me down. But I did borrow Natalie's."

He handed it over, and Sherlock opened it and typed the phone number into his own phone. "When I find what I find, I'll text message you."

"Wait, I—"

Sherlock put his hand on Monk's shoulder before getting out. "Tread carefully, American colleague."

"But I don't-!" Sherlock shut the door and got out before he could finish, "—know how to do that."

He got out of the cab and went into the hotel. He followed Sherlock's theory and went to the room indicated by the extra digits on the bill. He put the five dollar bill into the card reader, a green light came on, and the door unlocked. The room was completely white—white walls, white floors, white ceiling. No windows, no funiture. Monk walked in slowly considering how surreal this was, when the door shut behind him. He tried to open it, but it was locked.

Sherlock was in the same kind of situation. He saw hanging on the wall in front of him—a sliding tile puzzle. As he looked at it, he began sliding in the pieces in his mind, working toward the most effective solution. He tore himself away from it long enough to send Monk a message.

Monk also saw something on the wall. As he came closer, he heard a beep. He looked around and realized it came from his pocket. He pulled out Natalie's phone, opened it, and saw on the screen a phone number and the words, "Sliding puzzle."

"This is a text message? What do I do?" He couldn't figure out the keypad, so he just dialed the number on the message and turned on speaker phone.

Sherlock was just reaching for the first tile when the phone rang. He grunted in frustration and looked at the screen. It was the number he just saved into his phone, Mr. Monk. (He decided to keep it formal just in case he actually met a real monk). He answered, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Hello, it's me, Andrian Mo—"

"Yes, I know, Monk." ("_How many Adrians does he think I know?" _he wondered.)

"I got your message. 10-4, OK?"

"Why didn't you just text me?"

"Here's the thing: I don't really know how."

"You don't know h-? Listen, ask Miss Teeger to get you a smartphone for your birthday, or put it on your Christmas wish list. It will change your life, Mr. Monk."

"I don't think so."

"Trust me." Sherlock paused and thought of the perfect words to say, "You'll thank me later."

"Alright, I'll think about thinking about it."

"It's a start."

"So, you have a sliding puzzle?"

"Yes. The solution's a map."

"Oh, you already solved it?"

"Mentally, yes."

"Do you know where it goes?"

"I do."

"Well, great! You don't even need to solve it. We'll just go there."

"No, the door locked behind me. It's probably set to open when I solve it. Also, there's a silver drawer underneath the board that's locked. It may include a vital clue, and it will probably also open when I solve it."

"Hey, I have one too."

"What kind of puzzle do you have?"

"Looks like a memory board, you know a concentration game where you have to flip over the tiles and look for matches."

"What are the dimensions?"

"Four down, thirteen across. So, fifty-two squares—"

"—twenty-six matches."

Monk mumbled, "Why couldn't he have stopped at an even fifty?"

"Excuse me?"

He said louder, "I mean, what's this all about? What does this have to do with the kidnapping?"

"He's testing us. Assessing our strengths, proving us worthy."

Monk sighed, but he was starting to think there was no way to prove to Sherlock that this wasn't a game.

"This shouldn't be too hard at all. Your memory is spot-on, and I already know how to solve the puzzle. This shouldn't take five minutes. It's child's play, Mr. Monk, child's play."

"Elementary," Monk said almost distantly.

"Yes, of course." (_"Who says 'elementary' anymore?"_) "I'll leave you to it, then. Call me back when you're done. Let me know what you find."

"OK. Good luck."

"Don't need it." Sherlock hung up. "Now . . ." He reached for a tile and slid it to the side. Immediately, a brilliant light shone right into his eyes. He couldn't stop himself from crying out, and his eyes shut tight. He very slowly opened them and shaded his eyes with his hand, but the light just kept getting brighter.

Meanwhile, Monk turned over the first tile in the upper right corner. It was a cartoony picture of an airplane flying in the clouds. Monk bit his lip and turned the next one. It was another airplane. He smiled, a match right off the bat, but before he could celebrate too much, he heard a "whoosh!" A toy airplane came out of nowhere and zoomed down on his head. Monk ducked and screamed. He looked up and didn't see the plane anywhere, but his heart rate had already jumped, and he started breathing hard.

John and Natalie figured out where the hotels were, but they weren't sure where their bosses had gone. They split up and went to each location.

Sherlock closed his eyes and groped for the gap, then he made his next move. The light turned off, but at the same time a horrible noise, like a car horn that would not stop, went on full blast. Sherlock stopped his ears and wondered how he was going to make his next move.

Once Monk was certain the airplane was gone and calmed down enough, he went back to the board. The next tile had a picture of an arrow pointing up. He didn't know what that signified, but the tile beside it was a cartoon of a clown. No match, nothing happened. He flipped over the arrow again and kept looking for its match. As he saw other cards available, he started to dread what was coming. Finally, he found the other arrow. Suddenly, the floor and the walls turned to glass, and he saw how high up he was. Monk screamed and got up against the wall next to the board; the arrow stood for heights.

"I must solve it quickly," Sherlock finally thought. He made another move, and the noise stopped. Suddenly, though, the tile became scalding hot. Sherlock screamed and pulled his hand away. His fingers were badly burned. He took off his scarf and put it over his hand to make the next move.

Monk was too scared to budge, but then he thought, "OK, maybe the next one won't be so hard. In retrospect, the airplane wasn't as bad as this." He remembered seeing one match of elevartor doors. "There's no elevator in here, and I doubt one's gonna fall on top of me." He moved his hand and punched the two tiles. Then, he looked down. The floor started to move up to him. He felt like he was moving, and he realized that the glass room suddenly became a giant elevator, and it was crashing to the ground! Monk curled up in a ball, bracing for impact, but it didn't come. When he looked up, the room was white again.

He carefully got up and pushed another couple of tiles that looked like tiny doors. Then, the walls started moving again. This time, they were closing in. The door was coming closer to him. That was too much. He ran to the door and tried opening it again, but it was still locked. So he knocked and screamed, "GET ME OUT! I'M TRAPPED IN HERE!"

He kept hitting on the door until he heard someone knocking back. "Mr. Monk, is that you?" Natalie's voice said on the other side.

"Natalie, thank God! Get me out! I'm running out of air!"

He felt it shake, but it didn't open. "I'm trying, but it won't budge!"

"Is there an axe nearby?"

"I'll look for one. Get away from the door."

He inched back to the puzzle, but he didn't hear from Natalie. He remembered one other match, a pair of tiles that were completely black. He punched those two, and all the lights turned out. "NOOOOOOOOO!"

Sherlock was trying to do the puzzle as quickly as he could, but with each move there was another hardship. Probably the worst one was when lemon juice shot right into his face, stinging his eyes and nose and irritating his tongue. He started singing "Ode to Joy" in the original German to take his mind off it. In the next move, the temperature of the room started to climb. He took off his coat, and then his phone rang. It was John's number. "Hello, John," he answered.

"Sherlock, where the devil are you?"

"Apparently, I'm with the devil?"

"What?"

"Got my hands full at the moment, John. Too complicated to explain."

"Well, your colleague is falling apart. We found him, but we can't get him out."

"Leave it to me, John. I'll talk to him." He hung up and dialed Monk's number.

Monk saw the phone ringing and was grateful that he had some light. Then he recognized the number and got mad. He answered the phone by saying, "Child's play? _Child's play_? Who was your kindergarten teacher, Adolf Hitler?"

"Look, Mr. Monk, I wasn't expecting this, at least not yet. It's a crucible, a test by fire. We have to show 'em what we're made of."

"OK, here's the thing: what I'm made of—"

"This isn't a matter for debate, Mr. Monk! I know it's bad, but you must solve the puzzle."

"I can't!"

"What part of 'must' don't you understand? It's the only way it'll stop. It's the only way we'll get out."

"But I can't!"

"Yes, you can! You just have to think about something else. Think about . . ." (an image of Monk's hand flashed in his mind, centering on his wedding ring) "your wife. What's her favorite Willie Nelson song?"

Monk's voice cracked. "Blue Eyes Cryin' in the Rain"

"Can you hear her singing it?"

"I can."

"Just concentrate on that. Let her voice fill your mind. It helps."

"Alright, I'll try."

"And just get through it as quickly as you can. That's what I'm doing. And above all, remember what it's all for." He hung up.

Monk got back up and groped for the board again. "For Molly," he whispered. The board only lit up for a second when he touched it. Since he was still in the dark, he didn't see the horrors that came next. He still stiffened up because he could hear them and sometimes feel them. Sometimes he saw them for a second; the one for "clown" popped out at him like a glowing jack-in-the-box. But he just followed Sherlock's advice, concentrated on Molly, and tried to find the next match as soon as the initial shock wore off.

Sherlock was having more trouble than he was anticipating. It just kept getting more and more uncomfortable. After one move, he heard screeching feedback that hit his ears like an icepick and shook him to the marrow. He had to stop and put his hands on his head, and he pulled at his curls. He got such a bad headache from the noise. Everything seemed to hurt. It was just so much. Then he said aloud, "No, you're not going to stop me! You're not going to stop me, not this time!" He promptly finished the puzzle, and just as soon as he slid the final tile in place, there was a rapid beeping noise, the titles all flashed, and the map faded. So it was a good thing he remembered the location; he just hope this headach won't make him lose it. The silver drawer opened, and he looked inside and pulled out a key. On the keyring was a plastic replica of an unusual wrapped pastry. It looked familiar to him, but he couldn't place it right away. It actually hurt to think. This isn't good.

Monk was nearly finished. Two more squares remained, one more match. He pushed the first square—a white bottle. "Oh no." He pushed the final square.

Natatlie heard a splash and then a click. She was able to open the door. "Mr. Monk?"

Monk was lying on the floor curled in a fetal position and whimpering like a wounded puppy. He was covered from head to toe with milk. Before she could figure out what to do with him, she heard her phone ring. Monk had it in his hand, and she gently got it out. "Hello?"

"Miss Teeger?"

"Oh, Sherlock?"

"Might I speak with your employer, please?"

"He . . . seems indisposed at the moment. Is there something I could do for you?"

"He solved the puzzle, then?"

"I think so."

"Do you see a silver drawer on the wall?"

"Yeah."

"Open it for me, please."

She slid it open. "It's open."

"Is there anything inside?"

She picked something up. "Looks like a business card. All it says is 'The Green Door.' Nothing on the back, no explanation, that's it."

"Thank you. Please give it to John. I'd like to see it." Sherlock hung up.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Some time later, Monk hit the doorbell of 221B Baker Street with his elbow. Mrs. Hudson opened it for him. "Oh, there you are, dear. Sherlock just asked me to make a nice cuppa for you."

"Cup of what?" he asked.

"Sorry, I forget you're American—tea."

"Oh, no thank you."

"He said you'd say that. I'm afraid he insists." She started leading him up. "So, your friend tells me you're a widower?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Me too. My husband was executed in Florida. Sherlock helped with the case."

"Goodness!" That was all he could think of to respond at the moment. She didn't seem sad about it, and obviously she was still on good terms with Sherlock, so it was probably for the best. But if Mr. Hudson threatened her, why did she keep his name? Well, there were other things to think about, and he was still very much in a daze. She let him in.

Sherlock was lying down on the sofa with his hand folded. "Hello, John. Kettle's just boiled," he said wearilly.

"No, it's me, Adrian, Monk," he responded just as wearilly.

"Ah. Have a seat. Where's John?"

"He took Natalie sightseeing. They dropped me off here. They both think we need some time alone, but Natalie doesn't want me to leave you. She's convinced you're worth ten of her."

"I should've warned her."

"I know! I tried to already, but she's so stubborn."

"No, I mean about John. The longest relationship I've seen him in didn't even last a month. I'm sure it's even harder long-distance."

"Oh, it's nothing romantic. They're just bonding. Because they have the same job, and basically the same boss. At least that's what the doctor said, 'Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.'"

"Are you sure?"

Monk nodded. "Besides, she's already involved. One of her late husband's friends, Stephen Albright. She says they're 'engaged to be engaged.'" Mrs. Hudson gave Monk the tea, and again he refused.

"It's distilled water, and it's been boiled, completely microbe-free."

"I only drink Sierra Springs. I tried Summit Creek, but I went back. It's just not as good."

"Mr. Monk, I'm not asking. We've been thrown off our game, both of us, though John tells me it was worse for you. We must reboot and begin again." He added in a whisper, "I don't think you'd like the alternative" and he gave him a "don't ask" look.

So Monk sipped the tea. "It's good." He then became aware that there was music playing. "Willie Nelson!"

Sherlock nodded. "Found a satellite radio station. I see the appeal. He has a simplicity, some _je ne sais quas._ Was going to try it on the violin, but, well, I should've listened to you. I should've taken better care of my hands." He unfolded his hands and revealed that one of them was bandadged.

"What happened?"

"Blistered. Still stings a bit. He assaulted all of my senses. This was mechanoreception." Monk gave him a confused expression, and he frowned. "Touch!"

"You gotta learn to slow down."

"I thought I did."

"Why don't you put a bandage on your other hand?"

"It's not injured."

"But then they'll be symmetrical. It will help you think better."

"Will it get rid of this headache? It's not as bad as it was, but I don't get headaches!"

"It . . . might."

"No, that's absurd." He looked him up and down and noticed that though they looked identical, there was something different. "Those aren't your clothes."

"I had to throw them out, every stitch, even my good shoes. Thank goodness I brought backups."

"What happened?"

"They all got soaked in milk. It was already starting to go bad. I just washed myself at the hotel ten times. It wasn't enough. I still feel it. I still smell it!"

"Milk?"

"He got my fears, well, not all of them, but my worst ones. Heights, elevators, the dark—"

Sherlock smirked. "Well, that confirms what I always suspected."

"What?"

"'Cool' has a _completely _different meaning in America."

"No, not really. It was a joke, a rather mean one at that."

"Sarcasm?"

"No. See, at Berkely, there was this old fridge in the rec room of my dorm, and the freezer would get so frozen that you couldn't put anything in there. It just bothered me. I didn't even use it all that much, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. It got to the point that I couldn't concentrate on my studies knowing that freezer was getting all icy. So I started de-icing it. I used spatulas and hair dryers. It put me at peace for a while, usually wouldn't get too bad until the end of the week. And you know, I even started to enjoy those weekends. I found it relaxing. But my dormmates, they laughed behind my back and called me Captain Cool. I didn't even know it until a few years ago at my reunion. Sherlock, they didn't even know my name. They just remembered me as the freak who de-iced the freezer and then somehow started dating a girl who was way out of his league."

"Your wife?"

Monk nodded. "Trudy." He opened his mouth to tell him about her, but Sherlock interrupted his thoughts.

"I see. That's how stupid people entertain themselves, make up little names. I won't even tell you what they called me at boarding school. Did they get annoyed at your observation skills, too?"

"Maybe. Didn't use them too much in college. I was too busy studying, filling my brain."

"They don't understand, do they?"

"Because they're stupid?"

"Of course." Sherlock sat up and looked at him. "Now, do you believe me?"

"That everybody else is stupid?"

"No!"

"What, about this being a game?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Well, I'll say this—whoever did this deserves to . . . die."

"Agreed."

"It still doesn't make sense. I don't know anyone in England. I don't have any enemies here."

"That you know of."

"Who would go to this trouble?"

"I know of someone, but I've been trying to think what he'd want with you. Why would he bring you into this? It's not your fight."

"The guy the doctor talked about, the one who supposed to be dead? Well, how would he know about me?"

"I told you already, 'Your fame preceeds you.' You're known here. Lestrade knows you. I wouldn't too surprised he knows you; he's borderline omniscient. Though I have to admit, I doubt very people know about your milk phobia. That didn't make the papers, did it? Oh, and those people told him about it." He pointed at the folder next to his laptop.

"Those people?"

"I flipped through it when I came in. Mycroft intercepted them; I recognize his handwriting. Old friends of yours, I imagine. It's very crytic, though, and I can't think too hard about it right now."

Monk flipped through it too, and he recognized the names, but he didn't read them yet. "Just tell me this, Sherlock—are you sure they're alright?"

"Who?"

"My Molly and your Molly."

"Oh, yes, relatively certain. I mean, he possibly could hurt them, abuse them in all sorts of ways, but I don't think that's his style. And he wouldn't kill them yet, or else there wouldn't be much reason for us to pursue him, would there?" Monk put his cup down. "More tea?"

"No. Look, I know you want me to feel better, but tea's just not gonna do it. I can only think of one thing that might get my mind off of things. You won't like it, but—"

"Don't say it."

"—you'll thank me later."

"Alright, but stay away from the fridge. You wouldn't want to look in there, anyway."

Monk got up and found Mrs. Hudson. "Ma'am, where do you keep the vacuum cleaner?"

He worked on vacuuming, straightening, and disinfecting for a few hours. He didn't speak much, except one time he mentioned that the bullet-hole smiley face wasn't straight. "Maybe you should plaster over it and do it over, or get new wallpaper." Sherlock only grunted in reply. He was lying on the sofa again with his face turned away.

When Natalie and John came back, John looked around impressed. "Wow! The flat looks worlds better. It even smells decent."

"Smell like Bart's," Sherlock grumbled.

"Well, that's your second home, isn't it? Is Mrs. Hudson expecting guests again?"

"Oh, this isn't Mrs. Hudson," Natalie said. "Look at the lines in the carpet."

John looked down and saw that they were perfectly perpendicular. "Seriously, can we trade?"

"How much do you make?"

"Half his cases, but I do have to pay him my share of the rent."

Monk came in from the back. He still looked tired, but his face was more satisfied. "That's better," he said.

Sherlock turned around and looked at the whole room and the kitchen. "Mr. Monk . . ." He stood and straightened out his clothes. "Thank you."

"See? What did I tell you?"

So since they both recovered somewhat, though neither one of them were quite 100%, they got back on the case. Sherlock drew out the map he saw in the puzzle, and Monk looked at his business card and at Mycroft's emails.

"It's obviously amateurly done. Look at these smudges. He probably did it with a computer printer. Though this is Molly's favorite font, I mean my Molly, Molly Evans. 'The Green Door.' What is that, some sort of club?"

"I don't think so."

"Do you think we literally need to look for a green door?"

"Possibly." Sherlock tossed him a key. "What do you make of this? Is that some sort of crepe?"

"Looks like a tamale." They both looked at each other and laughed. "I get it, a key ta Molly."

"I don't usually enjoy puns, but that one was rather clever."

Monk looked over Torini's email. "Well, these are magic trick secrets! This coming from Mr. A Magician Never Reveals His Secrets So I'm Gonna Rub Magic Into Your Face Every Chance I Get 'Cause I Know Something You Don't."

"I could see a magician subverting the magician's code if it meant getting revenge on the man who put him in jail."

"Listen to these illusions—the shrinking room, invisible walls, reverse levitation . . . hey, these all happened to me in that torture chamber. So, it wasn't real? I wasn't really running out of air? Would've been nice to have known." He noticed Sherlock had bowed his head and put his hands on his temples. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock composed himself. "Nothing. Just remembering something unpleasant."

Monk put that one to the side and read the email from Patrick Kloster. "The Bishop is very particular in his moves. As you know, he can only move in a straight line. There are two ways to make him vulnerable: take away his Queen and interrupt his path. Even if the Knight protects him, he will remain weak, and checkmate will eventually be imminent." Monk dropped the paper. "Oh good grief, it's me! He's talking about me!"

"What?"

"Bishop, it's the most religious-sounding chess piece, associated with Catholicism, so's a monk. The Bishop can only move diagonally and can't jump over pieces. He's telling the recipient how he can beat me."

"Wouldn't be the first time he's traded encrypted strategies."

"But why? What does he want with me?"

Sherlock secretly smiled. He was finally starting to come around.

Once they had the map all drawn out, they all took a cab and went to its destination—a storage locker facility. Sherlock sent John and Natalie off to campus the area to take out any guards who might be lurking about. They noticed one problem right off—all the doors were green.

"Well, I guess we just need to try this key on all of them. Let's just go in order, 1A."

"No!" Sherlock took off running, and Monk followed as fast as he could. They stopped in front of—

"2M?" Monk looked at Sherlock confused, but Sherlock grinned and showed him the tamale keyring. "To Molly," Monk whispered.

"Unless I'm wrong, which, you know, I'm not," he said with a snicker.

They put the key in the lock, and indeed it fit perfectly, but Sherlock stopped before he turned the key. "It just seems too easy, doesn't it?"

"So what? We're almost there."

"If you want to go for it, be my guest. I'm going to check around for traps and other dangers."

Monk didn't like that. He didn't want to touch the rusty door, but knowing that Molly was on the other side encouraged him. He grabbed the handle with a handkerchief and pushed up. There she was, tied to a folding chair. "Molly!"

"Adrian!" she said. "I knew you'd come!"

He squatted down to her level and just looked at her. "Are you OK? Did he hurt you?"

"Yes, I'm alright. He told me you weren't coming, that your fears would keep you away. He even said that you didn't love me as much as you loved Trudy, but I never believed him! That's the worst he did."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Monk. Molly's told me all about you." For the first time, Monk noticed there was another young woman with reddish hair tied to another folding chair back to back with Molly E.

"Her name's Molly too; can you believe it?" Molly E. said laughing.

"You didn't come alone, did you? Is he here-? SHERLOCK!"

Monk looked up and saw that he was coming cautiously through the doorway.

"Wow, you're right, Molly, he _is _cute," Molly E. said. Sherlock winced.

"I swear, Sherlock, that wasn't the word I used," Molly H. said apologetically.

"Come on, Sherlock, help me get them out of here," Monk said. He started reaching for the ropes around Molly E.'s wrists.

Sherlock, however, started circling them, staring hard at the ladies. "Where is he?" he said coldly.

"You're in luck," Molly E. replied. "You came just at the right time. He's out ordering a pizza."

Sherlock looked offended at her, as though he was saying, "Did you really think I'd buy that?" But then he got on Molly H.'s level and said softly. "Is there anything I should know about? Traps, snipers?"

"None that I know of," she answered.

He said in a whisper that sounded very hurt, "Why are you lying to me?" Just then, he looked up and saw something sharp where Monk had his hand. "ADRIAN, LOOK OUT!"

Sherlock ran over, grabbed Monk's wrist, and pushed it out of the way, but Monk was still scratched by something very sharp. In the process, Sherlock also got stuck. Hidden in Molly E.'s rops was a syringe. Monk looked at his hand and watched as the blood started welling up in his palm. "Oh no," he said very slowly. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. His legs turned to jelly, and he fell. Shortly after, Sherlock fell also.

"I'm so sorry, Adrian. I couldn't tell you," Molly E. said, though her voice sounded so distant now.

"He threatened to kill us if we breathed a word," Molly H. explained. "I'm sorry."

He couldn't see them, but echoing in the distance, Monk heard Natalie calling his name, and John yelling, "Sherlock, are you alright?" Then he heard the door slam shut.

And then he saw someone he didn't recognize, a man with dark hair in a dark suit. He said in a very loud voice, "REUNITED, AND IT _FEELS _SO GOOD!"

"Sherlock," Monk said in a daze, "who is that?"

"As you would say, Mr. Monk," Sherlock answered, "he's the guy."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Oh John, don't look so shocked," the newcomer said. "Your friend's not the only one who can put on a show. Though it was _so_ convincing, got everyone going. I have to admit, you did a better job of it than I did; I bet you even fooled yourself sometimes. Oh, but where are my manners? Don't want to ignore the new faces. Miss Natalie Teeger, charmed." He took her hand and kissed it. Natalie reached for her purse to get her pepper spray, but John stopped her. "Pity. Sharona was so much hotter." He then turned around. "And you. Been wanting to meet you for a while, Adrian Monk." He held out his hand. "Jim Moriarty."

_Why does that name sound familiar? _Monk wondered.

"Come now. Where are your manners? I assume you _have _manners in America." When Monk still didn't move, Moriarty took his hand and shook it. Then Monk felt Moriarty's finger wiggle in his palm and hit right where the syringe scratched him. "Do you know how long it's been since I've washed my hands?" He leaned in, smiled, and whispered, "I don't either."

Monk recoiled in horror. "WIPE!"

Natalie reached for her bag again, but Moriarty pointed a gun at her. "Don't you dare! If you wish your lovely hands to remains on your wrists, stay as you are." He turned to Monk. "I wanted to make a lasting impression. Defective detective indeed. That's what Dale Biederbeck calls you, isn't it? Shame what you did to him; he's a good man."

"In what sense of the word?" Monk answered coldly.

"A good _business _man. Taught me a lot, Dale did, not just how to be a criminal mastermind and the trick of having an air of omniscience about me, but also to watch myself. Be careful what I eat, stay fit. Don't want to end up like that poor tub of lard." He stepped over to Sherlock. "So, what did you think of him, Sherlock, old boy? Did he drive you crazy with all those phobias and obsessions? Did you like that jazz hand thing he does? Did you take notes?"

"Why did you bring him into this, Moriarty?" Sherlock said. "Our problem has nothing to do with him."

"I told you before, Sherlock, why does anyone do anything?"

"Well, you have to be pretty bored to grab an American detective out of his element and bring him across the pond!"

Monk turned to him suddenly. "Say that again?"

"What, still too fast for you, slowpoke?"

"Brought me out of my element . . ." Monk looked off in the distance.

"Well, there could be many reasons," Moriarty said. "I might've decided to expand my enterprise, get off this island, go see the 'new world.' Lot of good stuff in America, just there for the taking. Or it could be just because of my love for the letter M. Isn't it just marvelous? Molly, Molly, Monk, Moriarty—why couldn't you have an M-name, Sherlock? You've gone and broke the pattern. Adrian knows that's not . . . cool."

"No," Monk whispered, "I know why you did it."

"Ooh, goodie! What a treat, one of Monk's famous summations! You listen to this, Sherlock; this is how it's done. Right, off you go."

"Here's what happened. You tried to destroy Sherlock Holmes, ruin his respected reputation, declare him a fraud. But it wasn't working. Despite all your best efforts, Sherlock returned. So you wanted to challenge him again, knock him back off his pedestal, but you couldn't do it to his face because you were believed to be dead. So you turned your attention to me, the private consultant to the San Francisco police. You talked to many of my old foes who I put behind bars. You found out all my vulnerabilities and exactly what would get my attention. Then you started to develop a plan that would involve both of us. So you set the stage."

There was a long pause. "Is that it? That's all you got?"

"No, we agreed, this is _his _part." Monk nudged Sherlock.

"Oh, right," Sherlock said. "You knew Molly Hooper was single since she dumped you. So you hacked into her dating profile and created the perfect match. You set a date to get her to meet Captain Cool straight away, but when she saw you on the front step, she recognized you. She fought to keep in her apartment, but you overpowered her and took her away. Then you flew to America, more than likely using your Richard Brook alias, to abduct Miss Evans."

"That part wasn't so difficult because she had no idea who you are, even if you didn't use the alias. All you had to do was trick her into thinking you were a novice filmmaker directing a documentary about the life of a brilliant English detective, and she was hooked. You could've brought Molly Hooper to San Francisco, but you knew I'd be taken out of my element bringing me on your home turf, that it would only make me weaker. That's why you brought me here. You planted the clues. You used Mr. Torini's secrets to build both of our own personal nightmares, each challenging our strengths to provide false confidence and attacking our weaknesses to make us even more vulnerable."

"That's right. I bet you used the security cameras in the room, then cleverly edited the footage to make both of us look like sniveling cowards taking out the stimuli to our reactions. How quickly did _that _end up on Youtube?"

"Good question. Better question, what is Youtube? Is it some sort of British thing?"

"It's not important."

"Well, everyone knows about my phobias and my hang-ups. It's very well documented; there's even an expose about it, and Sherlock's told me I'm well-known here in England."

"I didn't really say _well_-known."

"You said I had fame."

"You're not covered by the papers to the extent I've been."

"Well, anyway, this is obviously not about me. It's not about America. It's not about these young ladies, these Mollies. It's about him. It's about you and him and how I can bring him down."

Moriarty clapped slowly and sarcastically. "Bravo. Nicely done. Of course, you left out all the best bits, but you're new here and don't know the whole story, so I'll let it slide. Though I wonder, Sherlock, how much of that did you already know before he even got here?"

"But there is something you didn't consider. You made a big mistake."

Moriarty suddenly looked at him fiercely. "What is it? WHAT DID I MISS?"

"Patrick Kloster. Why did you talk to him? Why not, say, Hal Tucker, Daniel Thorn, or Gavin Lloyd?"

"Well, old Pat's more on our level of intelligence."

"That's what I thought."

"You know, he wonders why you haven't come to visit him. Not very many prisoners are grand chess masters; most of them don't even know how to play chess. Can you imagine?"

"Is that why he gave you such bad advice? You know who I would've recommended? Max Hudson."

"The shock jock? Look, I have a dirty mind, and I enjoy an occassional joke, but I'm interested in a Howard Stern wannabe!"

"But I think he's the only person still alive that can give you a first-hand account of what I can be. He would've told you how wrong Patrick Kloster was." He put his hand on Molly Evans's knee and started trying to stand up. "I can't speak for Sherlock, but there's only one reason why I came to England, one reason why I went through that nightmare, one reason I just slid open the rusty door to this storage locker." He managed to get up and he looked furiously at Moriarty. "I become a _completely_ different man when you so much as threaten my qu—" He tried to take a step toward Moriarty but then realized he still couldn't feel his legs and fell on the floor again. He quickly whispered an apology to Sherlock when he knocked back into him.

"Well, I wanted to drag this out, but since some of us are over-eager, we'll move ahead." He slid a pair of handcuffs toward John and Natalie. "Cuff them." He got out his gun again. "NOW!" They picked the cuffs up and headed for the detectives. He then turned to the Mollies. "Ladies?" He unbound them and took them up from the chairs. Monk looked up at him, and he noticed. "Oh, don't worry about them, Adrian. I have something very special planned for my new friends. Now, put them on the same chairs." Natalie and John followed his order. Once the detectives were seated in the chairs, Moriarty pulled out some kind of remote control and clicked it, and the chairs were pulled into a spot in the back of the locker.

"Another thing, Mr. Moriarty," Monk said as this was all going on. "Since everything about me is so well-documented, you can't so easilly pull a credibility hit on me. What I say, a lot of people can back up. Just ask Captain Stottlemeyer or Captian Disher in New Jersey or Dr. Neven Bell. I've been called two things—World's Best Detective and World's Worst Liar. So when I leave here with these young ladies, bring them back home, I'll tell the world that I couldn't have done it without Sherlock Holmes. I would attest to his intelligence and ingenuity in a heartbeat. And they'll believe me. They'll have to; I've got—what's the word the kids are using these days, crad?"

"I think you mean 'cred,'" Sherlock said softly.

"Yes, I've got cred!"

"Admirable sentiments, Adrian, admirable sentiments," Moriarty said while patting Monk's cheeks and making him even more uncomfortable. "But, as you would say, here's the thing: you're not getting out of here."

"What?"

He backed away. "This has been fun, you two. I so enjoyed playing a round of doubles with you. But I'm sure both of you will agree with this is over, for my team, it's game, set, match." As he said those last three words, he clicked the remote three more time. Some lights turned on and revealed three weapons pointed right at the two detectives—a gun, a crossbow, and an axe.

"What's all this?" Sherlock asked.

"It's nothing personal. It's just that when I told you to stop, you wouldn't stop. You don't stop. You don't know the meaning of the word 'no.' You DON'T STAY DEAD! Neither of you do. You're both in my way. So, you know what they say, 'If you want something done, you gotta do it yourself.' I'm going to kill you, and this time it's gonna stick. All these weapons, you see, are on a timer. They're all set to go off one by one, and then the chair beneath you is going to blow up."

"And you're not gonna stick around?"

"I told you that before, too, Sherlock, I don't like getting dirty. Something I know you can relate to," he added tweaking Monk's nose.

"You monster. You creature, you despicable creature!" Monk yelled. Sherlock had his head down, and he looked defeated, but actually he was paying very close attention to where Moriarty placed his shoes. He happened to notice he was taking very strange steps.

"Oh, Adrian, you got the wrong impression about me. I am a gentleman. I have some decency about me. Here's how I'll show you. I'll give you an hour to live. One hour to be alone with your thoughts, plenty of time to pray, get right with the Lord, if you're into that kind of thing. Oh, but you know what? That paralysis should be worn off by then. So when all this happens, you should feel every bit of it. I guess I'm not so merciful after all." He chuckled wickedly.

"As for you lot," he said pointing his gun back at the assistants, "I really don't care what you do. You're ordinary, you're stupid, you're boring. So I'll give you two a choice. You can leave. Whenever you wish, you can leave. Go back to your normal, pathetic lives, but don't go back into to law enforcement, and don't ever breathe the words Sherlock Holmes or Adrian Monk. Pretend like they never even existed, and you'll live. Natalie, I'll even pay your ticket back to San Francisco, first class. Or, you can demonstrate your loyalty, your faithfulness to your masters and stay here and die with them. And just in case you're wondering, saving them is not an option. Hidden all around these chairs is a ring of land mines. One misstep, and you're all gone." He took an aplogetic look at the detectives. "I know, it adds to the overkill. What can I say? I've been reading _The Hunger Games, _brilliant book, very vivid. I can identify with it so much; I think I'd be _very_ happy in the Capitol. Of course, I suppose it goes without saying, don't try to escape. You'll blow yourselves up if you'll even try, and it won't be quite as entertaining. See, I got a live feed from that camera up there which I'll be watching on my mobile. Guess what else is going on Youtube?" He looked at both the Mollies. "Come on, dears, we got a lot to do." He took them both by the arm and dragged them along. "Adios. Au revoir. Au weitezein. Sayonara. Shalom. Aloha. Dosvidanya." He kissed the tips of his fingers and waved. He clicked remote one last time, starting the clock, and he was gone.

"I tried to tell you this was a trap," Sherlock mumbled.

"Well, I didn't back down, did I?" Monk answered.

"Natalie, you can do whatever you want," John said, but then he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. "I'm not leaving, not this time."

"Me neither." She sat down next to him and held his hand. After a few moments, though, she let go. "Although, I should probably go outside and call Stephen, Julie, maybe even Captain Stottlemeyer, say goodbye."

"You know, maybe you should go back to them. You have a family who needs you. I have nobody."

"No, Julie's on her own now, and Stephen can take care of himself. I've served my purpose with them. Mr. Monk needs me more. But I still should say goodbye, tell them I love them." But as she started to get up, she stopped. "Wait a minute. I know that smile. I know that twinkle." She came as close to the detectives as she could. "What's going on?"

"He gave you a third option," Sherlock told her. "He didn't say it, but he told you everything you need to know. If you want to prove your loyalty to us, you'd take the third option."

John was starting to catch on. He got up and also cautiously approached. "What is it?"

"John, he's wrong about you, you know. You may be ordinary and sometimes boring, but you're not stupid. You are the fourth smartest man in London, perhaps fifth in the world. And you, Miss Teeger, I may be worth ten of you, but you're worth about a hundred of him," (he nodded over at Monk). "I'm sure it's true, isn't it, Mr. Monk?" Monk groaned. "See? Now, go!"

"What about you?"

Sherlock laughed. "Don't worry about us, we'll be fine."

"What?" Monk yelled.

"Just go! Now!" John and Natalie started running for the door.

"No! Natalie, don't listen! WORRY ABOUT ME, NATALIE! WORRY ABOUT ME!"

But as soon as they got out, Natalie asked John, "OK, you know him better than I do. What was that about? What was he trying to tell us?"

"He was trying to build up our ego," John answered. "He does that sometimes when he's desparate."

"Well, what's all this about a third option? I don't know what he's talking about. What's the third option?"

"I think I know." He looked at Natalie intently. "We can stop him. We can save both the Mollies."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"I hate to burst your optimistic bubble, Sherlock, but we're _not _gonna be fine!" Monk said as soon as he understood they weren't coming back. "Even if we do get out of this by some miracle, we've already been infected."

Sherlock was still staring at the ground trying to plan their imminent and daring escape. "Infected? What do you mean?"

"Well, I've been infected, and you're breathing my air, so it's only a matter of time. I seriously don't know why he went to all this trouble. I knew this was gonna happen eventually. England is where the Black Plague started. Oh no, here it comes. I feel my throat closing up. I'm getting feverish. Spots before my eyes. Oh, yes, this is how it starts. You know how it ends, Sherlock? I've been through it before; I know—intense vomiting followed by instant death. Can you believe it? Intense vomiting!"

"Oh please, GROW UP AND GET AN IMMUNE SYSTEM!"

Monk was stunned. No one had ever told him that before.

"I'm sorry. I just, I need to think." They were silent for a bit. "Right, judging from where Moriaty stepped when he was talking to us, I think I know the locations of the mines."

"Good for you. Bunch of good it'll do us."

"You know, it would really help if you were thinking, too, Mr. Private Consultant DETECTIVE OF SAN FRANSISCO!"

"Oh, I am thinking."

"Good. What have you found?"

"I'm thinking that we're about to die! In forty-six minutes and thirty-three seconds, it'll all be over. It'll be over soon. Oh, it's nice to think positive, isn't it, Sherlock?" He started sobbing.

Sherlock sighed. His colleague's mind was stuck. If only he would concentrate, this could be done so much sooner.

"Do you know what the worst thing is? The last thing I'll ever see, the very last thing I'll see in this world is that crooked crossbow. Why did it have to be so crooked? He could've straightened it, that monster."

Sherlock looked up to see he was talking about, and everything started to come together. The plan was starting to form in his head. "Yes, he could've," he said quietly.

* * *

"Well, how do we do that, John?" Natalie asked. "Did you hear where he was going? Did he say? I heard him say he wanted to do something with the Mollies, but I must've missed what."

"Didn't you learn anything?" John said in frustration.

"About what?"

"From Monk! Didn't he teach you anything?"

"Oh, the things I learned from Mr. Monk I don't think have much value. He's got all sorts of theories about how the Black Plague started. He believes everything should be clean, straight, and even. He says ten is the perfect number because it's even, but I think he really means round."

"What about being a detective? What has he taught you about being a detective?"

"Well, his philosophy there is always the same, 'It's a gift and a curse.' I think he was just born that way, probably had a magnifying glass in his tiny hand."

"Well, we gotta think like detectives. You heard what Sherlock said, Moriarty told us everything. Something he said . . . Natalie, I can't believe I'm saying this. It's gonna sound utterly ridiculous, but it's something Sherlock says, so please don't laugh. We need to go to our mind palace."

Not laughing at that was very hard, but Natalie choked it back, and it only came out as a scoff. "What does that mean?"

"We need to think, remember every word Moriarty said. Somewhere in there is the key."

* * *

"I wonder if I might ask you something," Sherlock said after a long period of silence.

"What's that?" Monk answered still sobbing.

"What did you do to Dale Biederbeck?"

"Dale the Whale? What does it matter?"

"It _matters_ because it matters to Moriarty. That name meant more to him than any other mentioned. I just would like to understand why."

"What does it matter? We're about to die!"

Sherlock saw that he was getting nowhere, so he added a little sob to his voice. "Please, Mr. Monk. I don't wanna die not knowing. Please."

"I put Dale the Whale in jail."

"Oh, how poetic. What did he do?"

"He murdered a judge."

"That's it? That's what got Moriarty's attention?"

"Well, he did a lot of other nasty things, not the least of which includes making Trudy's life a living nightmare for a whole year, but I nailed him on the murder."

"You nailed Dale the Whale and put him in jail. Ha! Regular Dr. Seuss, you are."

"You probably would've liked the case. Morbidly obese man, 800 pounds, couldn't get out of his bed let alone his house, and yet every piece of physical evidence pointed to him as the murderer."

_Here we go,_ Sherlock thought. "Fingerprints?"

"No, but there was an eyewitness, and the victim identified Biederbeck on the 911 tape."

"Obviously, he had an accomplice who took great pains to make it look like Biederbeck was the culprit. I don't have enough information about how much evidence you had available, but I'm rather sure he left footprints using Biederbeck's shoes and used a personal item of Biederbeck's as the murder weapon. Perhaps the murderer was adept at mimicry and falsified the judge's voice when he called emergency. As for the witness, you live so near the cradle of modern cinema, making someone with average weight appear obese is not a trick. It could be as complicated as completing a six-hour makeup job or as simple as wearing the padding underneath a Father Christmas costume."

Monk was amazed. "_It took me days to figure that out, and I did have access to all the evidence, and it didn't even take him five minutes!" _he thought. "That was good. Yeah, that was pretty good. Though it wasn't quite a Santa costume; that didn't come into play until the time I was in a mental hospital."

"Mental hospital? Ooh, I gotta hear that one!"

* * *

"He said something about 'game, set, and match,'" Natalie remembered. "Is there a tennis tournament going on? It's too early for Wimbeldon, isn't it?"

"I'll check." Watson pulled out his phone, got in the Internet, and scanned through local events. "No, but we're on the right track, I think. What else did he say?" He noticed an ad in the margins for a teenage movie and snapped his fingers. "_Hunger Games_! Moriarty said something about _Hunger Games_! What do you know about _Hunger Games_?"

"Julie's told me a little bit about it. It's much too violent for my taste."

"Violent, that sounds like him. Tell me what you do know."

* * *

"Didn't you find the Alexander Diamond?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, that's a matter of opinion," Monk answered. "I _found _it, yes, but I was too late to _claim _it."

"Oh, I don't care about that. If it were me, I'd turn down the reward, even if it was for all the crown jewels. The chase is my reward."

"I agree, but you haven't employed Natalie Teeger. She kept making this sound whenever I found a clue, something like 'ka-ching,' like a cash register, you know. And the chase wasn't really all that fun because there were three other detectives after the diamond, one of them from London, actually."

"St. Claire? Yes, I believe I read his account. So what did he mean when he said you found the diamond under a table?"

Monk groaned and shuddered.

* * *

Moriarty was watching from his phone as he was riding in a taxi. He smiled. "Oh, isn't that cute? They found something to bond over." He held the phone out to the Mollies. "You wanna see this?"

They both shook their heads defiantly.

"You sure? It's good stuff." But they held their ground, so he withdrew his hand. Yet he added under his breath, "It's certainly a lot more entertaining than where we're going."

* * *

Natalie tried to remember what she could. "It's a story about teenagers forced to fight to the death. It's told from the point of view of a girl who participated in the game to save the life of her little sister. Julie says it's all about oppression because the girl is from the poorest state, and most of the states of that country are poor, and they're ruled by an oppressive Capitol—"

"Capitol!" John interrupted her. "He said something about the Capitol, didn't he? He said he'd be very happy in the Capitol."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know, but it means something. It has to."

* * *

" . . . and she hid the body on top of the lift," Sherlock concluded.

"Yeah, that's what happened."

"I like this! How about you?"

"Well, I don't hate it. Hey, why don't you tell me one of your cases?"

"One of mine?"

"Yeah, see if I can figure it out. Then I'll tell you another one of mine."

"So, I take it you don't read John's blog?" He then said almost in unison with Monk, "'What's a blog?' Of course. Alright. There were four people dead from the same type of poison. The police was convinced that it was an unfortunate series of suicides."

"Was there any water present?"

"Come to think of it, no, but I believe the pills were chewed, anyway. Rather clever solution, though."

"That was my first official case. We found a woman dead from an overdose of sleeping pills. Everyone said it was suicide, but I knew it had to be murder because there was no water. Anyway, that counts as my turn, so please continue."

* * *

"So he wants to be oppressive," John thought aloud. "He wants to take all the young people and make them destroy each other. Do you think he could do that?"

"Well, maybe it's more literal than that," Natalie suggested. "London is the capital city of England, right? Maybe he wants to take over London."

"But what could that mean? He wanna make himself royalty? Take over the government?"

"Wait a minute. There's something he said around the beginning. About him loving the letter M and getting after Sherlock for not having an M-name? Breaking the pattern, remember? Sherlock breaks the pattern, yes, but his brother—"

"Mycroft! And he works for the government! Moriarty's after Mycroft!"

* * *

"OK, I give up," Monk said.

"S-H-E-R. So the screen read, 'I am Sher-Locked.'"

"That's not fair! You didn't tell me there were letters involved!"

"Yes, I did. Second attempt, 221_B_, remember?"

"Oh yeah."

"Alright, my go."

"Have you ever heard of Sonny Chow?"

* * *

"You are in danger. Where are you?" John typed into his phone.

"You think he'll answer as fast as he did last time?" Natalie asked.

"I wish he would." They waited until his phone beeped. John read aloud the message. "'No time for games. Parliament's about to be in session.' Parliament!"

"Is he a member?"

"I don't think so, but there's not much about Mycroft I know. He might be there to report on something."

"What's do you think Mo—Monty—what do you think he's gonna do?"

"I don't wanna think about it. We gotta get down there!" They ran to catch a taxi.

* * *

"There must have been something in the fog that made you see the monster," Monk suggested.

"Impressive! I didn't even say there was a drug involved."

"So I got that one?"

"I think so, yes."

"Great! Your turn."

"One more."

"OK."

Sherlock said slowly and contemplatively, "Why did you walk into a trap, knowing that it was a trap, you being the miserable coward that you are? Why did you even come down to England? You said there was only one reason." Sherlock closed his eyes and thought for a moment, then opened them again. "Molly Evans is your daughter."

"No, but close. She's my wife's daughter."

"Wife's daughter," Sherlock whispered and thought again. "My condolences for Trudy."

"Thank you. And you, same question, without the 'miserable coward' part." He thought for a moment and then said very solemnly, "Molly Hooper saved your life."

Sherlock said in a very soft whisper, "Yes, she did." They were both silent. "You didn't ask me how—"

"I don't need to. I think I know. And you know how I know, don't you?"

"Yes."

"I know you don't wanna talk about it, and you don't have to."

"Thank you." Sherlock started to feel his toes wiggling. He had been sending that impulse the first time he felt his legs go numb, but this was the first time he could feel them. The paralysis was wearing off; that meant it was nearly time.

"But there's something I need to tell you, Sherlock," Monk said. "I'm usually not comfortable in new places. This is actually the first time I've been outside of North America. I mean, I've been to other countries before. Canada's OK; I've been there a few times with Trudy and later with Molly. Mexico was a nightmare."

"I can imagine, the uncleanliness."

"Yeah, I nearly died of thirst. I was anxious about coming here; I thought it would be terrible. But ever since I got here, I've been OK. I recognize all the streets, especially Baker Street. Everything just has an air of . . . familiarity about it."

"I thought you said it was too 'over here.'"

"I know, it's strange. It's still foreign but familiar, but _foreign,_ but familiar. And then there's you. Sherlock, I feel like I've known you for a long time, I mean, ever since I was a boy. I recognize your voice, the things you say, even the way you say it. There's not much you've done that really surprised me. Can you explain that?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, that's absurd. I wasn't even born when you were a child, Mr. Monk. But . . . perhaps you're just remembering. I'm even impressed by your memory, and that's really saying something. Perhaps in your youth, you watched a lot of British programs, you know, _Doctor Who, Masterpiece Theatre_. It might have been something you read or a radio program you heard, like the ones with Basil Rathborn—"

"I'm not _that _old!" They both laughed a little bit. "I suppose it could be something like that. Everything just feels like a distant memory, like I've heard it before. Sherlock Holmes, it always just sounds like a familiar name. So does Lestrade, and Moriarty, and your doctor friend Dr. Watson. Molly, she's new."

"You know what I can't figure out? I thought I invented this profession; I thought I was the only consultant detective in the world. And you've been doing it for, what, twenty years?"

"Give or take. I mean, there were three years I was out of it. I feel fairly certain it was your idea."

"How do you mean?"

"I think you were the one who told me I was good at this and should do it for a living. Well, I guess it could've been someone like you. Anyway, I was officially on the force, so it's not quite the same."

"True."

* * *

"Oh, it's just about time," Moriarty said. "You sure you don't want to see this? It might be the last time you see your stepfather."

"Don't call him that," Molly E. said. "I rather remember Adrian the way he was."

"Me too, about Sherlock," Molly H. added.

"Alright, but you really don't know what you're missing," Moriarty said. That's when he noticed something. "No. No!"

* * *

Monk glanced at the clock and got more anxious. They barely had a minute laughed. He took a deep breath and tried to calm down. "Well, we had good run, you and I."

"Yes, we did. And it's not over yet." Monk looked back at Sherlock who grinned at him and held up both his hands.

"OK, you got out of the cuffs. We still can't move, remember? We'll set off the mines, or the bomb underneath us will go off."

"Then _don't move!_" Sherlock whispered. He took out of his pocket a blue rubber ball. "At least, not until I tell you." He looked at the clock, waiting for the exact second.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?"

"Straightening the crossbow."

He bounced the ball, and it set off one of the mines. Then it bounced to the next mine then set it off and kept going until it set them all off. Then it hit the gun as it went off, the bullet hit the crossbow, which did make it straight, and the arrow went straight into the camera lens. "DOWN!" Sherlock yelled as the axe fell, and they fell down and rolled to a safe distance until the bomb went off.

"What was that?" Monk yelled.

"Simple physics! I love Rube Goldberg machines; I used to study them."

"What's that ball made of, titanium?"

"Never you mind." Sherlock picked the lock of Monk's handcuffs, and then he took a handwipe and placed it on the cut in Monk's hand.

"Where'd you get that?"

"It was in your pocket."

"I thought I used them all in that room."

Sherlock then threw it to the side. "I believe that's killed the infection."

"I want a second opinion. Where's your doctor friend?"

"Let's go find him!" Monk followed as he ran out of the storage locker.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Note: Thanks to trecebo for helping me out with this chapter. I might stretch reality with this one, but I kinda did with the last chapter as well.

Moriarty cursed very loudly when he saw how his old foe foiled his plan. Then he buried his face in his hands.

"I take it they got free?" Molly E. said.

"Told you they would," Molly H. answered.

"Oh, I never doubted."

"I was talking to him."

His face emerged from his hands and Moriarty answered, "Molly, you've got to learn. He cannot cheat death forever." Then, he looked off and his eyes twinkled with wicked delight.

"Well, you can't either. Think about that."

But Moriarty wasn't listening. He was texting.

* * *

After Monk and Sherlock got into a cab, Sherlock's phone beeped. He looked at the screen. "Took him _that _long?"

"What did he say?" Monk asked.

"You don't wanna know," Sherlock answered as he put the phone back in his pocket.

"What was that you were saying about Moriarty having an alias?" Monk asked.

"It was part of his scheme, last time," Sherlock answered. "The credibility hit you keep talking about? That's what it was. He sold a lie to a tabloid newspaper that he was an actor named Richard Brook and that I hired him to play my arch nemesis. Also, he claimed that all the crimes I solved were fabricated. A lot of people believe that to this day. Even though I've returned and solved undisputed crimes, the fate of Moriarty has never been disproved. I'm sure he's keeping it alive for his purposes."

"He said he had something special planned with our Mollies. Do you think the alias has something to do with it?"

"I wouldn't doubt it. He's probably involving them in a 'Storyteller' segment."

"Storyteller?"

"That's the false children's show he says he does."

"Storyteller," Monk whispered. He pulled out the card that read "The Green Door" and stared at it. "I should've thought of this. 'The Green Door' isn't a location; it's a short story by O. Henry. It's about a man seeking true adventure."

"Is O. Henry the one who wrote surprise endings?"

Monk nodded. "Trudy used to dare me to figure them out." He gasped and stared at it more closely.

"What is it?"

"Didn't you think it was odd that this so-called 'clue' really didn't tell us anything? I mean, all the doors were green, just like in the story."

"It was just to throw us off, what they call a red herring, though why they call it that I'll never know."

"It has to do with mystery fiction. It could be that, I guess, but I don't think this was a clue at all, Sherlock. It's a dare. It's a thrown gauntlet. Rather heavy-handed to dare me after testing all of my phobias. I think it means, 'Prove to me, Adrian Monk, that you are a true adventure.'"

Sherlock scoffed. "In order to do that, you'd have to move Heaven and Earth. And since you can't touch earth and you're afraid to fly, I don't really see that as a possibility."

Monk laughed. "Sharona used to say the same thing." Sherlock gave him a questioning look. "She was my assistant before Natalie. Long story."

Sherlock's phone beeped. He quickly looked at the screen.

"What does he say this time?" Monk asked. "Is it worth repeating?"

"He says, 'Have you seen the loveliest face in London? We have quite a view,'" Sherlock read.

"'Loveliest face'? Does that mean what I think it means?"

"How could it mean anything else?"

* * *

John and Natalie made it to Westminster Palace and ran for the assembly. If anyone tried to stop them, John flashed one of the credentials Sherlock pickpocketed from Lestrade and said, "Police business." He didn't like to do it, but he saw no other way around it.

Finally, they came to the Lords' Chamber where they heard someone say, "And now, to report on the state of our nation's defense, Mr. Mycroft Holmes."

"There he is!" Natalie said. They peeked in through the door.

"Thank you," Mycroft said. "My lords—"

"Natalie, look," John whispered. He pointed at Mycroft's head, and they could just barely see in his hair a red dot.

"A sniper?" she whispered back.

He nodded. "It's one of his prefered methods."

"So someone in here has a gun. How could he get it through security?"

"Probably disguised it as a camera and claimed to work for Richard Brook's show. Long story."

"How do we find him?"

"Have to admit, that's gonna be tough."

"Yeah, I guess this is one of those things that it's rude to just interrupt, even if it is a matter of life and death. You English and all your traditions."

"Right." John's eyes lit up, and he looked at Natalie. "I think I know something you learned from Mr. Monk that does have value here."

* * *

"It is so fortunate that both of you got so dressed up before I got you," Moriarty said as he led the Mollies into one of the ballrooms. "You gonna have the chance to be princesses!"

"Excuse me?" Molly E. said.

"You don't know this, dear, but the good people of London believe that I am the host of a children's show. I'm the Storyteller, and today you two are going to help me with the story." He started setting up a camera.

"This doesn't sound good," Molly H. mumbled.

"Oh, don't worry. As long as you do what I say, I won't hurt you. In fact, that's all you have to do. I'll narrate, and the two of you pantomime."

"And if we refuse?" Molly E. asked.

Moriaty stopped and looked at them coldly. "There's a bomb in this building, very well hidden. Only I know the location. If you don't do everything I tell you to do, I'll have it detonated. Not only will you die, Parliament's holding sessions right now, and you'll have the death of hundreds of people on your conscience. But it's your choice."

"Let's do it," Molly H. whispered.

"Yeah, they're probably on their way," Molly E. whispered back. "Alright, where do you want us?" she said louder.

"Yeah, and what is the story?" Molly H. asked.

Moriarty smiled. "Oh, you'll see."

* * *

"Tell me more about what Mr. Monk is doing when he does this," John asked, and he held his hands in front of him.

"Oh, I wish I could tell you," Natalie said. "Every time I heard him explain, it never was entirely clear. Sometimes he says he uses it to look for inconsistancies, other times he says he does it to block distractions. He even says that he doesn't realize when he's doing it."

"Well, let's try it. Maybe we can use it like a telescope."

"They're not going to like this."

"They'll like it when they save lives! You sell us way too short, woman!" John shook his head. "Sorry, the pressure's getting to me."

So, they walked around a bit with their hands spread in front of them looking at strange angles. Some onlookers in the hall did give them bizarre looks, but they didn't even see them. Then, John whispered to Natalie a heading. "Could you translate that to those of us who weren't in the military?" she answered.

"Up there!" he said, pointing. They could see a hunched figure in the shadows.

"OK, I think I have a plan."

* * *

"Hello, everyone!" Moriarty said cheerfully into the camera once they were set up. "We're in a very special place to hear a very special story about how two beautiful women became princesses. In fact, I have two friends to help me bring today's story to life!" Both of the Mollies smiled and waved. "This is the story of Snow White and Rose Red. Oh no, this is not the same Snow White that lived with Seven Dwarves. This is a girl named Snow White who had a sister!"

Both Mollies looked a little confused at each other; they weren't sure which is which.

"Snow White was named so because of her flawless skin as white as the purest milk, and her sister was called Rose Red because of her brilliant red hair and hands as delicate as rose petals."

That was enough cue for the two. Molly E. started touching her face as though she was primping, and Molly H. ran her fingers through her hair.

"These girls were as different as night and day. Rose Red had lots of friends and loved to go to parties, but Snow White was a quiet and shy girl, and she spent most of her time at home reading. But it was OK, because they loved each other deeply as sisters should. Wherever they went together, they went hand in hand. Snow White often said to her sister, 'We will never desert each other as long as we live.' And Rose Red would reply, 'Yes, and whatever one has, we will share with the other.' So they were always pretected by the power of love.

"One stormy night, the girls warmed themselves by the fire when they heard a knock at the door. Rose Red went to open it, but then she backed away in terror. It was a bear!"

But instead, Molly H. looked at Moriarty in confusion. "What bear?"

"Just keep pantomiming. We'll CGI it in later. Now, show me terror!" Molly held up her hands and mouthed a scream. "The girls quickly hid from the bear, but he spoke to him." Moriarty spoke in a gruff, funny bear-like voice, "'Don't be afraid, maidens. I am so cold and wet, and I only wish to come in for shelter from the storm.' The kind girls slowly came out of hiding and gestured for the bear to come in. So he entered and stretched out in front of the fire. The girls gently pet his fur, still timid, but as they became comfortable with the bear as saw that he was a friend, their play became rougher. They pulled at the bear's fur and hit him with sticks, and the poor bear cried out, 'Children, spare my life! Snow White and Rose Red, don't beat your lover dead!' The girls heard what pain it caused the bear, so they always made sure to be gentle. And the bear returned every night, and the girls became closer to him every night he came. They both loved him so."

* * *

"'The Clarion Call'!" Monk said suddenly. "I bet that's the story he's reenacting. It's not really about a clock; it's about a newspaper."

"No, he's more of the fairy tale type," Sherlock answered. "He likes the Brother's Grimm."

"What about O. Henry?"

"He's probably using O. Henry to get your attention because he's American."

"OK, then, what Grimms fairy tale involves a clock?"

"Forget that detail; he's not using the Clock Tower."

"But I thought we agreed. 'Loveliest face in London,' remember?"

"Yes, and I also remember he said they had an incredible view. If they were inside the Clock Tower, they wouldn't _see _the face. Beside, the Victoria Tower opposite is taller, better view."

"I'm not sure. Should we split up?"

"We could, but either way is a long way up, lots of stairs."

Monk gulped. He didn't like the idea of going up all alone.

* * *

Natalie went up to where John spotted the sniper. As John predicted, he looked like he was looking through a camera, but she could just barely see his finger on the trigger. She gasped. "Oh no! Oh no! My earring! I lost my earring! It's irreplacable; my grandfather gave it to me on his deathbed! Oh, mister, have you seen an earring?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, lady," he answered without looking up.

"Well, I think it fell right by your foot. Oh, what am I going to do? It's all I have left of Grandfather Neville Davenport!"

The mention of a British business tycoon worth millions was enough to get his attention. The sniper glanced down at his feet. In the next second, John grabbed his gun and punched him repeatedly until he was knocked out. "Well, there we go. Crisis averted."

"It does seem a little easy, does it? What happened to the Mollies?"

"That's a good question."

* * *

"But one day, the girls were brushing the bear's fur, and Snow White found a bad tangle. She pulled and pulled, until part of his fur came off! Oh, she apologized over and over, but then she saw something wondrous. Underneath that clump in her brush was pure, glistening gold! She showed it to the bear, asking where it came from. The bear replied, 'I am a king's son, and I have been doomed by a wicked witch to roam about the woods as a bear. There is one thing that may break my curse, but to tell you will break my heart.' But the girls begged him to tell them, for they promised they would do anything to break the curse."

Moriarty looked straight at them with a face full of evil. "And the bear said, 'Sacrifice. If a maiden would throw herself down from the tallest tower of the royal palace, her blood will dissolve my bear skin, and I shall be a prince again.'" Both Mollies looked at each other in fear. "Oh yes, no one wants to hear that, but they did make a promise, and these good girls always keep their promises. Brave Rose Red agreed she would make the sacrifice. 'You love the bear more than I, so when I die you may marry him.' But Snow White took her hand. 'No sister, remember what we said, "We will never desert each other as long as we live."'"

"That's not how it goes!" Molly E. suddenly yelled.

"Oh, who said I was going to abide by the official version? You know how fairy tales are; they always change. Look at what Disney did to _The Little Mermaid_."

"But you said we were both going to become princesses!"

"Tragic princesses! Of course, you'll come back to life and marry the prince (and you his brother) and live happily ever after, but we'll CGI that in later."

"And you said we wouldn't be hurt!" Molly H. protested.

"No, I said _I _wouldn't hurt you. I'm not going to force you to go up, and I'm not going to push you off. But remember what will happen if you don't!"

Molly H. gestured to Molly E. and whispered, "I say we just go ahead and do it. They're probably on their way."

"I don't know," Molly E. answered. "Adrian's not very comfortable around heights."

"That's OK, Sherlock doesn't have a problem. He dropped off the roof of Bart's a little while ago. Long story."

"Think he'll be able to save us both?"

"I know he can."

"OK, Molly, I trust you." She took a deep breath and turned around. "Alright, let's go."

* * *

There was no telling how long it took to climb all the stairs to get to the top of Victoria Tower, but somehow to Monk it didn't feel like that long, and he didn't feel too worn out when he got up to the top. It must've been the adrenaline still running through his body fueled by his desire to protect Molly. Still, when he got to the top, his fear reigned.

"You go on ahead. I got your back," he told Sherlock.

Sherlock gave him a confused look. "You got my . . . back?"

"We say that in America all the time. It's a good thing." Monk smiled and gave him two thumbs up.

"What does it mean?"

"I'm not really sure. I think it means 'Go ahead. I'm right behind you.'"

"You're just trying to get out of this, aren't you?"

"Trust me, I'm doing what I can."

Sherlock sighed and walked ahead. Yet as soon as he walked out, he saw all of England at his feet, and the bitter wind stung his cheeks. There wasn't as much space on this roof as there was on Bart's, much easier to fall and a much longer way down. All that he experienced that day can rushing back to his memory. His heart was in his throat. He felt dizzy and pale and nauseous. Most of all, he pressed himself against the wall by the door, and he could not move. Finally, he called out, "JOHN! JOOOOOOOOOOOHN!"

"What is it?" Monk called back.

"WHERE'S JOHN?"

"I DON'T KNOW! DO YOU NEED HELP?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away, so Monk took a deep breath and pushed himself through the door. He didn't take his eyes off the wall until he found the other detective, and he made sure he only looked at his face. "I-I-I don't know what's come over me," Sherlock said. "I can't move. I have terrible vertigo, it's never been this bad."

"Please don't vomit on me."

"I will make every endeavor," Sherlock replied annoyed. "I really need John; he's a doctor!" He started hyperventilating.

"No, you don't need the doctor. I know what's going on. That place you're in now, that's where I live. Afraid of heights?"

"No! I wasn't before!"

"Before what?"

Sherlock just looked at him.

Then Monk realized. "Rise and _Fall _of the Reichenbach Hero. You fell! You literally fell!"

"Falling's just like flying, only there's . . ."

"I know."

The door opened again, and Moriarty came out with both the Mollies. "Well, well, what is this? Two heroes come to save the princesses. You're not technically part of the story, but I think we can work you in. Oh, but what do we have here?" He put down his camera and started singing mockingly, "Sherlock's got a weakness, Sherlock's got a weakness."

"Don't listen to him," Molly H. said.

"But it's true, isn't it? I mean, look at 'em, two peas in a pod, aren't they? And not just because they have the same profession." He came closer to Sherlock. "The cold reality's setting in, isn't it? You can't cheat death forever. There's not always going to be dummies, bloodbags, and friends to help you. Next time you fall, it's not going to be so clever. You'll fall for good and all. Just ask your friend; he can tell you. Why don't you tell him, Adrian, how far down does he have to go?" He laughed cruelly.

As Moriarty moved away, Monk looked intently into Sherlock's face. "Listen, Sherlock, you're gonna have to be the strong one, here."

"Must I?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, because I'm not! I'm just not. You're right about me; I'm a coward, a miserable coward, but you're not! I know you can do this. You're a true adventurer. Just take a deep breath, take it one step at a time, and try not to look down. You don't want to wind up like me."

"No. No, I don't." He took a deep breath and pushed Monk aside. Moriarty was leading both ladies to the tower's edge. Before he could think, Sherlock broke into a run, and he caught both ladies by the wrist just as they were beginning to fall. He pulled Molly H. up and said flatly, "Now, we're even."

She threw his arms around his shoulders but then backed away. "Oh, I'm sorry. I was just so caught up."

"No, it's alright. I understand." When she was hugging him, his view was obscured, and he didn't feel any vertigo anymore.

"Listen, there's a bomb," Molly E. whispered. "Somewhere in the building, there's a bomb. He threatened to detonate it."

"Right, thank you."

Moriarty went up to Monk who was now pressed up against the wall. "I must say, Adrian, you play the game fine. You're not as fun as Sherlock, but perhaps it's a different kind of fun. I wouldn't mind another round."

"No," Monk said shaking his head. "No more games. You're going to jail."

Moriarty pointed on the horizon. "Do you see what I see, Mr. Monk?" He whispered in his ear, "The wan halo of a green door."

Monk looked to where he was pointing, worried that there was something dangerous going on. When he turned, Moriarty was gone.

"Why didn't you stop him?" Sherlock asked angrilly.

"Why didn't _you_ stop him?" Monk answered.

Sherlock understood; they were both dealing with a phobia that hindered them. "What did he say?"

"He quoted O. Henry again. 'The wan halo . . .' wait, that sounded like . . ." He looked at the card again. " . . . the Statue of Liberty. Sherlock, I think he was right. He is expanding his enterprises."

Sherlock nodded. "He's going to America."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

They never found Moriarty, and no one was really sure how he disappeared so quickly. And though Westminster Palace was turned upside-down, a bomb was never found. So either he hid it exceptionally well, it was removed when he left, or (and this was the option most people believed) Moriarty was bluffing. Either way, no one in Parliament was really happy about it, and consequently Moriarty was starting to be villified again. As far as Lestrade was concerned, this was case closed. Monk, however, felt he had some unfinished business.

"I don't see anything wrong," John told him as he looked down Monk's throat.

"Are you sure? I still feel hoarse and feverish."

"Oh, come on," Sherlock scoffed. "You conveniently forgot you were ill when we got out of the storage locker."

"Please, Sherlock, I told you I wanted a second opinion."

"You don't feel feverish either," John said.

"Are there any test you can run?"

"Well, all my equipment's at the hospital. Look, I don't think we've had a case of the Plague in . . . centuries."

"Well, you know, just to be sure."

Once Natalie got a chance, she whispered to John, "Now, imagine this 24/7. Still wanna trade?"

"No, you can have him," he answered.

Also, to everyone's surprise, Monk _requested_ that they hold a small press conference. Scotland Yard did have one planned, but Monk explained that he had some things he wanted to say. Mycroft asked to lead it specifically so he could thank the people who saved his life. The press conference began with him describing exactly what happened in Parliament that day and how they all foiled it.

"Of those involved, we want to extend a special thanks to our American visitors, the highly esteemed private detective of San Francisco, California Adrian Monk and his assistant Natalie Teeger. At this time, we would like to present them with a special honor." The reporters in attendance applauded as Mycroft pinned to Monk's jacket a small medal. He gave Monk a small bow. Then he pinned another medal on Natalie's blouse, gave her a small bow, and shook her hand. Then he retook the podium and said, "It is my understanding that Mr. Monk would now like to say a few words." But there was no movement. "Adrian Monk?"

"Hang on, just a moment," Monk replied. "Just making sure this is straight." Natalie helped him, and he took the podium. Then he straightened the microphone. Then he noticed a smudge on the lecturn (Lestrade wiped it down). "Sorry. I hope you'll forgive me if I read my speech. I do have it memorized, but you look down, I might forget there's a small herd that could trample me to death." The reporters laughed very uncomfortably.

"I would like to thank you for this honor. It's my understanding that Britains don't usually hand out accolades, especially to non-Britains. Of course, I could be wrong. At any rate, I will treasure this. However, I would be remiss if I did not mention those who helped me. I could not have found Molly Hooper and Molly Evans had it not been for your detective Sherlock Holmes and his assistant Dr. John Watson. I know many people out there still have doubts regarding Holmes's abilities, but I am here to say in all honesty that I have never met a more genuine detective. Not saying others aren't out there, but I haven't met them.

"American short story writer William Sydney Porter, better known as O. Henry, once said, 'True adventurers have never been plentiful. The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greet unknown fate.' I believe under these qualifications that Porter would agree with me that Sherlock Holmes is a true adventurer. Not only that, Sherlock has reminded me what true adventure is. True adventure is seeking for games and puzzles where it seems none exist. True adventure is living for the chase, pursuing it relentlessly, and letting it be its on reward. Most of all, true adventure is dangerous, and unless has enough ingenuity will end in certain death. That's why I usually avoid true adventure, but I can still admire Holmes. I hope this strategy will continue to lead him to success.

"To those who still do not trust Holmes's abilities even after this, I ask for more understanding. It's different for people like us. It just is. We see things other people don't see. We remember things other people forget. We can't even put into words everything we experience. It's not easy. It's a gift and a curse. But I can promise you we're not faking anything. London is fortunate to have Sherlock Holmes, and I hope he will continue to solve cases for many years to come. Thank you."

The audience applauded as he stepped back. Mycroft took the microphone again. "Do you have a reply, dear brother?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, then he said, "Yes, I do." He took the podium. "Mr. Monk told me the same thing when I first met him, 'It's a gift and a curse.' I responded that my philosophy is that the majority of people are stupid. Then he offered me a challenge and asked if I considered him the same. After observing him during this case, I came to this conclusion. Adrian Monk is absurd. His logic periodically veers to the ridiculous. For crying out loud, the man is afraid of milk! There is no logic whatsoever in such a fear! His mind is absolutely abnormal, and it's a wonder he can function in society!"

"Sherlock!" John yelled a little louder than he meant to.

"Calm down, John, he just took that as a compliment." John looked over, and Monk nodded. "But . . . he is not stupid. He has an impressive memory. He has his own style, and he noticed a _few _things even I did not see. I suppose in some ways I could also admire him for his cautiousness. I almost lost myself, but he helped bring me back to my senses. It was certainly refreshing to work with one whose thinking is at least somewhat similar to mine, someone who could figure out what I was thinking so that I did not always have to explain myself. I almost enjoyed working with Adrian Monk. At least, I did not hate it."

There was some more uncertain applause, and they concluded the press conference. Monk had a brief conversation with Mycroft before leaving since he was Sherlock's brother. Monk concluded by saying, "I'm glad to see that you got out of the house."

"He said that like it was an achievement," Mycroft thought aloud as Monk walked away.

"To him, it is," Sherlock told him.

"I thought Americans had higher standards than that."

"I said 'to him,' not 'to Americans.'"

Sherlock and John agreed to see Monk, Natalie, and Molly Evans off at the airport. Of course, everyone wanted to know how the detectives got out of Moriarty's trap, so Monk and Sherlock told them everything on the way. That only brought up more questions.

"How did he know about what happened to Trudy?" Natalie asked. "You didn't say much about her, and you usually talk about Trudy with every second breath."

"Well, I tried to a couple of times, but he always cut me off," Monk answered.

"Still, it's not as much as you normally do."

"I knew he wouldn't be interested."

"Really? Has that stopped you before?"

"Sherlock Holmes is a serious detective. The emotions brought about by marriage would only muddle his thinking. He's never been interested in romance, so I knew he wouldn't wanna be bothered with information of my own affairs."

"How do you know all that?"

"I know the man better than you think."

"Well, that doesn't really answer my question."

Monk tried to explain it to her, but this time Sherlock interrupted. "It's actually quite simple. Obviously, Mr. Monk is married; he's wearing a wedding band. Obviously, he's not married to you because you're not, and you didn't take his name. Every time he mentioned his wife, it was with wistful affection, but as you observed, he did not mention her often, so she was a significant part of his life no longer. Yet Molly Evans is significant to him, or else he wouldn't have risked himself. Therefore, my first deduction was that she was his daughter from an illicit relationship. Yet when Mr. Monk said Molly is his wife's daughter, that changed things. Most people would not risk themselves for children produced by their spouse's illegitimate relationships. Therefore, I revisited his wistful affection and realized that Trudy had died. That is why Mr. Monk risked himself for Molly Evans; losing her would be like losing Trudy all over again."

"What he said," Monk said gesturing to Sherlock. John laughed, and Monk added with a whisper, "Kid's got a future."

"So how did you find out what Molly Hooper did for Sherlock?" John asked.

"That's easy. Sherlock said he owed her. When we first met him, he said, 'I'm working on a case of my own at the moment. I owe my client all my concentration and energy; I am sure you understand.' If you risk yourself for someone you say you owe, what more do you owe them than your own life?" There was silence as the others marveled him for a bit. Then Monk turned to Sherlock. "You see? It doesn't have to be that complicated! That had no science stuff, no techo mumbo-jumbo, and I didn't have to speak at fifty miles an hour to get to my point!"

"But it was so simple!" Sherlock argued. "A child could've figured it out!"

"Your friend didn't, and he's a doctor."

"Oh, well, that's John; that's just the way he is."

They both looked at John who still had his mouth hanging open. "You remembered exactly what he said, word for word, from that long ago? That's extraordinary!"

"As I said before, it's a gift, and a curse." Monk looked at Sherlock. "That's my story, and I'm sticking to it."

"Well, I see it more now," Sherlock answered.

"But this also reminds me, I followed your instructions. I helped, but you solved the case."

"I'm curious, when did you consider the case solved?"

"When you knew exactly where they were, when you said, 'He's the guy.'"

"I suspected him before you even got here, so in those terms I solved the case before it even began. But I thought your terms were that the case was solved when you say, 'Here's what happened,' and as I recall _you_ did that."

"I was summarizing the case of Molly Evans, but I let you have the parts regarding Molly Hooper. I thought that was what you wanted."

John cleared his throat. "I think we had a hand in it, too. We kinda just saved the whole British government."

Natalie added, "Yeah, or at least your brother."

"Which, to you, is the same thing."

"Yes, thanks very much," Sherlock said rather flatly. He walked away.

"Told you it was a feud," John whispered.

Natalie whispered back, "I wouldn't let Mr. Monk get away with that. You gotta get your share."

"Look, I'll mail it to you."

Just as it was time to leave, they all stood in front of security. Sherlock had his hands clasped behind his back, and he stood in front of the senior detective. "Well, Adrian Monk, it's been fun."

"Well, that confirms what I always suspected," Monk answered. "'Fun' has a _completely _different meaning in England."

Sherlock smiled. "Then let's just say it hasn't been boring."

"That's high praise, believe me," John said.

"We can agree on that," Monk answered. He turned to go, but then turned back. "You should come to San Francisco sometime. If Moriarty really is coming to America, I might need your help. And even if he doesn't, it could be nice to have a little bit more help."

Sherlock smiled again and answered in a very sincere tone, "I would like that." Monk smiled and was about to ask him when he might come, but then Sherlock added in a raspy American accent, "But here's the thing, San Francisco, it's just so . . . over there, you know? It's almost like another country, another continent even."

Natalie and Molly both suppressed a giggle. Monk was not amused. "It's not that funny," he mumbled.

Sherlock put his hand on Monk's shoulder and said in his regular voice, "In all seriousness, dear colleague, I'll think about thinking about it."

"It's a start," Monk said as he reached for a wipe for his shoulder.

"In the meantime, if you ever decide to get out of the Dark Ages, we could occassionally Skype."

"Skype? What is that? It sounds dangerous."

"It's video conferencing," Natalie answered. "Remember, when Linda Fusco—"

"Oh, right. You know, that figured into a murder once."

Sherlock grunted agrilly. "Why didn't you tell me that one?"

"Well, I didn't tell you the one I really wanted to tell you, the case that had me stumped for over a decade, see how quickly you solve _that _one."

"Regarding the death of your wife, I suppose." He looked at Natalie. "Get him a phone! Texting, Internet access, the works."

"I'll see what I can do," Molly answered.

Natalie whispered, "We gotta go."

"Stay on the ground, Reichenbach Hero," Monk said.

"Keep calm and carry on, Captain Cool," Sherlock answered with a salute. Natalie and John traded a simple goodbye, Molly said thank you again, and then they all turned away.

"See? This trip was good for you," Natalie said. "Look at you! What are you smiling about?"

"Just thinking, me and Sherlock Holmes. It's just incredible. Wonder what Dad would think?" Suddenly, he froze, then slowly he turned around. Sherlock was standing in the distance, and he turned back one more time and stared at him. John wasn't sure what was going on, so he shyly waved.

"Adrian? What's the matter?" Molly asked.

Monk shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind. Let's go home."


End file.
